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BALZAC'S     NOVELS. 

Translated  by  Miss  K.  P.  Wormeley. 


Already   Published: 
PERE     GORIOT. 
DUCHESSE     DE     LANGEAIS. 
RISE  AND  PALL  OF  CESAR  BIROTTEAU. 
EUGENIE     GRANDET. 
COUSIN     PONS. 
THE     COUNTRY     DOCTOR. 
THE     TWO     BROTHERS. 
THE    ALKAHEST. 
MODESTE    MIGNON. 
THE.  MAGIC    SKIN  (Peau  de  Chagrin). 
COUSIN     BETTE. 
LOUIS     LAMBERT. 
BUREAUCRACY  (Les  Employes). 
SERAPHITA. 
SONS    OF    THE    SOIL. 
FAME    AND    SORROW. 
THE   LILY    OF    THE    VALLEY. 
URSULA. 

AN   HISTORICAL   MYSTERY. 
ALBERT     SAVARUS. 
BALZAC:    A   MEMOIR. 
PIERRETTE. 

THE    CHOUANS. 

♦— 

ROBERTS    BROTHERS,    Publishers, 
BOSTON. 


HONORS    DE    BALZAC 

TKANSLATEi»    BY 

KATHARINE    PHESCOTT    WORMELEY 


THE    CHOUANS 


Brittany  in  1799 


ROBERTS     BROTHERS 


3     SOMERSET     STREET 


BOSTON 
1893 


^IFTOR 


/f  'Muu 


Copyright,  1892, 
By  Roberts  Brothers. 


All  rights  reserved. 


Snititrstts  ^xtt%: 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridgh,  U.S.A. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

I.     An  Ambuscade 1 

II.     One  of  Fouch^'s  Ideas 71 

III.     A  Day  without  a  Morrow 210 


796235 


THE    CHdUANS: 


To  Monsieur  Theodore  Dablin,  Merchant. 
To  my  first  friend,  my  first  work. 

De  Balzac. 

I. 

AN   AMBUSCADE. 

Early  in  the  year  VIII.,  at  the  beginning  of  Vend^- 
miaire,  or,  to  conform  to  our  own  calendar,  towards  the 
close  of  September,  1799,  a  hundred  or  so  of  peasants 
and  a  large  number  of  citizens,  who  had  left  Foug^res 
in  the  morning  on  their  way  to  Mayenne,  were  going 
up  the  little  mountain  of  La  Pelerine,  half-way  between 
Foug^res  and  Ern^e,  a  small  town  where  travellers 
along  that  road  are  in  the  habit  of  resting.  This  com- 
pany, divided  into  groups  that  were  more  or  less  nu- 
merous, presented  a  collection  of  such  fantastic  costumes 
and  a  mixture  of  individuals  belonging  to  so  many  and 
diverse  localities  and  professions  that  it  will  be  well 
to  describe  their  characteristic  differences,  in  order  to 
give  to  this  history  the  vivid  local  coloring  to  which  so 
much  valile  is  attached  in  these  days,  —  though  some 
critics  do  assert  that  it  injures  the  representation  of 
sentiments. 

Many  of  the  peasants,  in  fact  the  greater  number, 
were  barefooted,  and  wore  no  other  garments  than  a 

1 


2  The   Chouans. 

large  goatskin,  which  covered  them  from  the  neck  to  the 
knees,  fiud  troupers  of  white  and  very  coarse  linen,  the 
ill- woven  texture  of  whieh.  betrayed  the  slovenly  in- 
dustrial habits  of  the  region.  The  straight  locks  of  their 
long  hair  mingling  with  those  of  the  goatskin  hid  their 
faces,  which  were  bent  on  the  ground,  so  completely 
that  the  garment  might  have  been  thought  their  own 
skin,  and  they  themselves  mistaken  at  first  sight  for  a 
species  of  the  animal  which  served  them  as  clothing. 
But  through  this  tangle  of  hair  their  eyes  were  presently 
seen  to  shine  Uke  dew-drops  in  a  thicket,  and  their 
glances,  full  of  human  intelligence,  caused  fear  rather 
than  pleasure  to  those  who  met  them.  Their  heads 
were  covered  with  a  dirty  head-gear  of  red  flannel, 
not  unlike  the  Phr\'gian  cap  which  the  Republic  had 
lately  adopted  as  an  emblem  of  liberty.  Each  man  car- 
ried over  his  shoulder  a  heavy  stick  of  knotted  oak,  at 
the  end  of  which  hung  a  linen  bag  with  little  in  it. 
Some  wore,  over  the  red  cap,  a  coarse  felt  hat,  with 
a  broad  brim  adorned  b}'  a  sort  of  woollen  chenille  of 
many  colors  which  wsls  fastened  round  it.  Others 
were  clothed  entirely  in  the  coarse  linen  of  which  the 
trousers  and  wallets  of  all  were  made,  and  showed 
nothing  that  was  distinctive  of  the  new  order  of  civili- 
zation. Their  long  hair  fell  upon  the  collar  of  a  round 
jacket  with  square  pockets,  which  reached  to  the  hips 
onlj',  a  garment  peculiar  to  the  peasantry  of  western 
France.  Beneath  this  jacket,  which  was  worn  open,  a 
waistcoat  of  the  same  linen  with  large  buttons  was 
visible.  Some  of  the  compan}^  marched  in  wooden 
shoes ;  others,  by  way  of  economy-,  carried  them  in 
their  hand.  This  costume,  soiled  by  long  usage, 
blackened  with  sweat  and  dust,  and  less  original  than 


The  Ohouans.  3 

that  of  the  other  men,  had  the  historic  merit  of  serving 
as  a  transition  between  the  goatskins  and  the  brilliant, 
almost  sumptuous,  dress  of  a  few  individuals  dispersed 
here  and  there  among  the  groups,  where  they  shone 
like  flowers.  In  fact,  the  blue  linen  trousers  of  these 
last,  and  their  red  or  yellow  waistcoats,  adorned  with 
two  parallel  rows  of  brass  buttons  and  not  unlike  breast- 
plates, stood  out  as  vividly  among  the  white  linen  and 
shaggy  skins  of  their  companions  as  the  corn-flowers 
and  poppies  in  a  wheat-field.  Some  of  them  wore  wooden 
shoes,  which  the  peasants  of  Brittany  make  for  them- 
selves ;  but  the  greater  number  had  heavy  hob-nailed 
boots,  and  coats  of  coarse  cloth  cut  in  the  fashion  of  the 
old  regime,  the  shape  of  which  the  peasants  have  re- 
ligiously retained  even  to  the  present  day.  The  collars 
of  their  shirts  were  held  together  by  buttons  in  the 
shape  of  hearts  or  anchors.  The  wallets  of  these  men 
seemed  to  be  better  filled  than  those  of  their  compan- 
ions, and  several  of  them  added  to  their  marching  out- 
fit a  flask,  probably  full  of  brandy,  slung  round  their 
necks  by  a  bit  of  twine.  A  few  burgesses  were  to  be 
seen  in  the  midst  of  these  semi-savages,  as  if  to  show 
the  extremes  of  civilization  in  this  region.  Wearing 
round  hats,  or  flapping  brims  or  caps,  high-topped 
boots,  or  shoes  and  gaiters,  they  exhibited  as  man}' 
and  as  remarkable  differences  in  their  costume  as  the 
peasants  themselves.  About  a  dozen  of  them  wore  the 
republican  jacket  known  by  the  name  of  "la  car- 
magnole." Others,  well-to-do  mechanics,  no  doubt, 
were  clothed  from  head  to  foot  in  cloth  of  one  color. 
Those  who  had  most  pretension  in  their  dress  wore 
swallow-tail  coats  or  surtouts  of  blue  or  green  cloth, 
more  or  less  defaced.    These  last,  evidently  characters, 


4  The   Chouans. 

marched  in  boots  of  various  kinds,  swinging  heav}^ 
canes  with  the  air  and  manner  of  those  who  take 
heart  under  misfortune.  A  few  heads  carefull}-  pow- 
dered, and  some  queues  tolerably  well  braided  showed 
the  sort  of  care  which  a  beginning  of  education  or 
prosperity  inspires.  A  casual  spectator  observing 
these  men,  all  surprised  to  find  themselves  in  one 
another's  compan}-,  would  have  thought  them  the  in- 
habitants of  a  village  driven  out  by  a  conflagration. 
But  the  period  and  the  region  in  which  they  were  gave 
an  altogether  different  interest  to  this  body  of  men. 
Any  one  initiated  into  the  secrets  of  the  civil  discords 
which  were  then  agitating  the  whole  of  France  could 
easily  have  distinguished  the  few  individuals  on  whose 
fidelity  the  Republic  might  count  among  these  groups, 
almost  entirely  made  up  of  men  who  four  years  earlier 
were  at  war  with  her. 

One  other  and  rather  noticeable  sign  left  no  doubt 
upon  the  opinions  which  divided  the  detachment.  The 
Republicans  alone  marched  with  an  air  of  gayety.  As 
to  the  other  individuals  of  the  troop,  if  their  clothes 
showed  marked  differences,  their  faces  at  least  and 
and  their  attitudes  wore  a  uniform  expression  of  ill- 
fortune.  Citizens  and  peasantry,  their  faces  all  bore 
the  imprint  of  deepest  melancholy ;  their  silence  had 
something  sullen  in  it ;  they  all  seemed  crushed  under 
the  yoke  of  a  single  thought,  terrible  no  doubt  but 
carefully  concealed,  for  their  faces  were  impenetrable, 
the  slowness  of  their  gait  alone  betraying  their  inward 
communings.  From  time  to  time  a  few  of  them,  notice- 
able for  the  rosaries  hanging  from  their  necks  (dan- 
gerous as  it  was  to  carry  that  sign  of  a  religion  which 
was  suppressed,  rather  than  abolished)  shook  their  long 


The  Chouans.  5 

hair  and  raised  their  heads  defiantl}*.  They  covertly 
examined  the  woods,  and  paths,  and  masses  of  rock 
which  flanked  the  road,  after  the  manner  of  a  dog  with 
his  nose  to  the  wind  trying  to  scent  his  game  ;  then, 
hearing  nothing  but  the  monotonous  tramp  of  the  silent 
company,  they  lowered  their  heads  once  more  with  the 
old  expression  of  despair,  like  criminals  on  their  way 
to  the  galleys  to  live  or  die. 

The  march  of  this  column  upon  Mayenne,  the  hetero- 
geneous elements  of  which  it  was  composed,  and  the 
divers  sentiments  which  evidently  pervaded  it,  will  ex- 
plain the  presence  of  another  troop  which  formed  the 
head  of  the  detachment.  About  a  hundred  and  fifty 
soldiers,  with  arms  and  baggage,  marched  in  the 
advance,  commanded  by  the  chief  of  a  half  brigade. 
We  may  mention  here,  for  the  benefit  of  those  who  did 
not  witness  the  drama  of  the  Revolution,  that  this 
title  was  made  to  supersede  that  of  colonel,  proscribed 
by  patriots  as  too  aristocratic.  These  soldiers  belonged 
to  a  demi-brigade  of  infantry  quartered  at  Maj'enne. 
During  these  troublous  times  the  inhabitants  of  the 
west  of  France  called  all  the  soldiers  of  the  Republic 
"Blues."  This  nickname  came  originall}-  from  their 
blue  and  red  uniforms,  the  memory  of  which  is  still  so 
fresh  as  to  render  a  description  superfluous.  A  detach- 
ment of  the  Blues  was  therefore  on  this  occasion  es- 
corting a  bod}"  of  recruits,  or  rather  conscripts,  all 
displeased  at  being  taken  to  Mayenne  where  military 
discipUne  was  about  to  force  upon  thoni  tho  uniformity 
of  thought,  clothing,  and  gait  which  they  now  lacked 
entirely. 

This  column  was  a  contingent  slowly  and  with  diffi^ 
ciilty  raised  in  the  district  of  Foug^res,  from  which  it 


C  The   Chouans. 

was  due  under  Ibe  levy  ordered  b}^  the  executive  Direc- 
tory of  the  Republic  on  the  preceding  10th  Messidor.  • 
The  government  had  asked  for  a  hundred  milUon  of 
francs  and  a  hundred  thousand  men  as  immediate  rein- 
forcements for  the  armies  then  fighting  the  Austrians 
in  Italy,  the  Prussians  in  Germany,  and  menaced  in 
Switzerland  by  the  Russians,  in  whom  Suwarow  had 
inspired  hopes  of  the  conquest  of  France.  The  de- 
partments of  the  West,  known  under  the  name  of  La 
Vendue,  Brittany,  and  a  portion  of  Lower  Normandy, 
which  had  been  tranquil  for  the  last  three  years  (thanks 
to  the -action  of  General  Hoche),  after  a  struggle  last- 
ing nearly  four,  seemed  to  have  seized  this  new  occa- 
sion of  danger  to  the  nation  to  break  out  again.  In 
presence  of  such  aggressions  the  Republic  recovered  its 
pristine  energ3\  It  provided  in  the  first  place  for  the 
defence  of  the  threatened  departments  b}^  giving  the 
responsibility  to  the  loyal  and  patriotic  portion  of  the 
inhabitants.  In  fact,  the  government  in  Paris,  having 
neither  troops  nor  mone}'  to  send  to  the  interior, 
evaded  the  diflficult}'  b3^  a  parliamentary  gasconade. 
Not  being  able  to  send  material  aid  to  the  faithful 
citizens  of  the  insurgent  departments,  it  gave  them  its 
''  confidence."  Possibly  the  government  hoped  that 
this  measure,  by  arming  the  inhabitants  against  each 
other,  would  stifle  the  insurrection  at  its  birth.  This 
ordinance,  the  cause  of  future  fatal  reprisals,  was  thus 
worded:  "  Independent  companies  of  troops  shall 
be  organized  in  the  Western  departments."  This  im- 
politic step  drove  the  West  as  a  bod}'  into  so  hostile  an 
attitude  that  the  Directory  despaired  of  immediately 
subduing  it.  Consequently,  it  asked  the  Assemblies 
to  pass  certain  special  measures  relating  to  the  inde- 


The   Chouans.  7 

pendent  companies  authorized  by  the  ordinance.  In 
response  to  this  request  a  new  law  had  been  promul- 
gated a  few  da3'S  before  this  history  begins,  organizing 
iQto  regular  legions  the  various  weak  and  scattered 
companies.  These  legions  were  to  bear  the  names  of 
the  departments,  —  Sarthe,  Orne,  Ma3'enne,  Ille-et- 
Vilaine,  Morbihan,  Loire-Inferieure,  and  Maine-et- 
Loire.  "These  legions,"  said  the  law,  "will  be 
specially  employed  to  fight  the  Choiians,  and  cannot, 
ui^der  any  pretence,  be  sent  to  the  frontier." 

The  foregoing  irksome  details  will  explain  both  the 
weakness  of  the  Directory  and  the  movement  of  this 
troop  of  men  under  escort  of  the  Blues.  It  may 
not  be  superfluoTis  to  add  that  these  finely  patriotic 
Directorial  decrees  had  no  realization  beyond  their 
insertion  among  the  statutes.  No  longer  restrained, 
as  formerly,  by  great  moral  ideas,  by  patriotism,  nor 
by  terror,  which  enforced  their  execution,  these  later 
decrees  of  the  Republic  created  millions  and  drafted 
soldiers  without  the  slightest  benefit  accruing  to  its 
exchequer  or  its  armies.  The  mainspring  of  the  Revo- 
lution was  worn-out  by  clumsy  handling,  and  the  appli- 
cation of  the  laws  took  the  impress  of  circumstances 
instead  of  controlling  them. 

The  departments  of  Mayenne  and  lUe-et-Vilaine 
were  at  this  time  under  the  command  of  an  old  officer 
who,  judging  on  the  spot  of  the  measures  that  were 
most  opportune  to  take,  was  anxious  to  wring  from 
Brittany  every  one  of  her  contingents,  more  especially 
that  of  Fougeres.  which  was  known  to  be  a  hot-bed 
of  "  Chouannerie."  He  hoped  by  this  means  to  weaken 
its  strength  in  these  formidable  districts.  This  de- 
voted soldier  made  use  of  the  ilUisorj-  provisions  of  the 


8  The   Chouans. 

new  law  to  declare  that  he  would  equip  and  arm  at 
once  all  recruits,  and  he  announced  that  he  held  at  their 
disposal  the  one  month's  advanced  i>aj  promised  by 
the  government  to  these  exceptional  levies.  Though 
Brittany  had  hitherto  repeatedl}^  refused  all  kinds  of 
military  service  under  the  Republic,  the  levies  were 
made  under  the  new  law  on  the  faith  of  its  promises, 
and  with  such  promptness  that  even  the  commander  was 
startled.  But  he  was  one  of  those  wary  old  watch-dogs 
who  are  hard  to  catch  napping.  He  no  sooner  saw 
the  contingents  arriving  one  after  the  other  than  he 
suspected  some  secret  motive  for  such  prompt  action. 
Possibly  he  was  right  in  ascribing  it  to  the  fact  of 
getting  arms.  At  any  rate,  no  sooner  were  the  Fou- 
g^res  recruits  obtained  than,  without  delaying  for 
laggards,  he  took  immediate  steps  to  fall  back  towards 
Alengon,  so  as  to  be  near  a  loyal  neighborhood,  — 
though  the  growing  disaffection  along  the  route  made 
the  success  of  this  measure  problematical.  This  old 
officer,  who,  under  instruction  of  his  superiors,  kept 
secret  the  disasters  of  our  armies  in  Italy  and  Germany 
and  the  disturbing  news  from  La  Vendue,  was  attempt- 
ing on  the  morning  when  this  history  begins,  to  make  a 
forced  march  on  Maj-enne,  where  he  was  resolved  to 
execute  the  law  according  to  his  own  good  pleasure,  and 
fill  the  half-empty  companies  of  his  own  brigade  with 
his  Breton  conscripts.  The  word  "conscript"  which 
later  became  so  celebrated,  had  just  now  for  the  first 
time  taken  the  place  in  the  government  decrees  of 
the  word  requisitionnaire  hitherto  applied  to  all  Re- 
publican recruits. 

Before  leaving  Foug^res  the  chief  secretlj^  issued  to 
his  own  men  ample  supplies  of  ammunition  and  suffi- 


The   Chouans.  9 

cient  rations  of  bread  for  the  whole  detachment,  so  as 
to  conceal  from  the  conscripts  the  length  of  the  march 
before  them.  He  intended  not  to  stop  at  Ern^e  (the 
last  stage  before  Mayenne),  where  the  men  of  the  con- 
tingent might  find  a  way  of  communicating  with  the 
Chouans  who  were  no  doubt  hanging  on  his  flanks. 
The  dead  silence  which  reigned  among  the  recruits, 
surprised  at  the  manoeuvring  of  the  old  republican,  and 
their  lagging  march  up  the  mountain  excited  to  the 
very  utmost  the  distrust  and  watchfulness  of  the  chief 
—  whose  name  was  Hulot.  All  the  striking  points  in 
the  foregoing  description  had  been  to  him  matters  of 
the  keenest  interest ;  he  marched  in  silence,  surrounded 
by  five  young  officers,  each  of  whom  respected  the 
evident  preoccupation  of  their  leader.  But  just  as  Hulot 
reached  the  summit  of  La  Pelerine  he  turned  his  head, 
as  if  by  instinct,  to  inspect  the  anxious  faces  of  the 
recruits,  and  suddenly  broke  silence.  The  slow  advance 
of  the  Bretons  had  put  a  distance  of  three  or  four  hun- 
dred feet  between  themselves  and  their  escort.  Hulot's 
face  contorted  after  a  fashion  peculiar  to  himself. 

*'  What  the  devil  are  those  dandies  up  to?  "  he  ex- 
claimed in  a  sonorous  voice.  "  Creeping  instead  of 
marching,  I  call  it." 

At  his  first  words  the  officers  who  accompanied  him 
turned  spasmodical!}',  as  if  startled  out  of  sleep  by  a  sud- 
den noise.  The  sergeants  and  corporals  followed  their 
example,  and  the  whole  company  paused  in  its  march 
without  receiving  the  wished- for  "  Halt !  "  Though  the 
officers  cast  a  first  look  at  the  detachment,  which  was 
creeping  like  an  elongated  tortoise  up  the  mountain  of 
La  Pelerine,  these  young  men,  all  dragged,  like  many 
others,  from  important  studies  to  defend  their  country, 


10  The   Chouans, 

and  in  whom  war  had  not  yet  smothered  the  sentiment 
of  art,  were  so  much  struck  by  the  scene  which  lay  spread 
before  their  e3'es  that  they  made  no  answer  to  their  chiefs 
remark,  the  real  significance  of  which  was  unknown  to 
them.  Though  they  had  come  from  Foug^res,  where 
the  scene  which  now  presented  itself  to  their  eyes  is 
also  visible  (but  with  certain  differences  caused  by  the 
change  of  perspective),  they  could  not  resist  pausing  to 
admire  it  again,  like  those  dilettanti  who  enjoy  all 
music  the  more  when  familiar  with  its  construction. 

From  the  summit  of  La  Pelerine  the  traveller's  eye 
can  range  over  the  great  valley  of  Couesnon,  at  one  of 
the  farthest  points  of  which,  along  the  horizon,  la}-  the 
town  of  Foug^res.  From  here  the  officers  could  see, 
to  its  full  extent,  the  basin  of  this  intervale,  as  remark- 
able for  the  fertility  of  its  soil  as  for  the  varietj-  of  its 
aspects.  Mountains  of  gneiss  and  slate  rose  on  all 
sides,  like  an  amphitheatre,  hiding  their  ruddy  flanks 
behind  forests  of  oak,  and  forming  on  their  declivities 
other  and  lesser  valleys  full  of  dewy  freshness.  These 
rocky  heights  made  a  vast  inclosure,  circular  in  form, 
in  the  centre  of  which  a  meadow  lay  softl}^  stretched, 
like  the  lawn  of  an  English  garden.  A  number  of 
evergreen  hedges,  defining  irregular  pieces  of  property 
which  were  planted  with  trees,  gave  to  this  carpet  of 
verdure  a  character  of  its  own,  and  one  that  is  some- 
what unusual  among  the  landscapes  of  France  ;  it  held 
the  teeming  secrets  of  many  beauties  in  its  various 
contrasts,  the  effects  of  which  were  fine  enough  to 
arrest  the  e3'e  of  the  most  indifferent  spectator. 

At  this  particular  moment  the  scene  was  brightened 
by  the  fleeting  glow  with  which  Nature  delights  at 
times  in  heightening  the  beauty  of  her  imperishable 


The  Chouans.  ^  11 

creations.  While  the  detachment  was  crossing  the  val- 
ley', the  rising  sun  had  slowh'  scattered  the  fleecy  mists 
which  float  above  the  meadows  of  a  September  morning. 
As  the  soldiers  turned  to  look  back,  an  invisible  hand 
seemed  to  lift  from  the  landscape  the  last  of  these  veils 
—  a  delicate  vapor,  like  a  diaphanous  gauze  through 
which  the  glow  of  precious  jewels  excites  our  curiosit}'. 
Not  a  cloud  could  be  seen  on  the  wide  horizon  to  mark 
by  its  silverj'  whiteness  that  the  vast  blue  arch  was  the 
firmament ;  it  seemed,  on  the  contrary,  a  dais  of  silk, 
lield  up  by  the  summits  of  the  mountains  and  placed  in 
the  atmosphere,  to  protect  that  beautiful  assemblage  of 
fields  and  meadows  and  groves  and  brooks. 

The  group  of  3'oung  oflficers  paused  to  examine  a 
scene  so  filled  with  natural  beauties.  The  eyes  of  some 
roved  among  the  copses,  which  the  sterner  tints  of 
autumn  were  alreadj'  enriching  with  their  russet  tones, 
contrasting  the  more  with  the  emerald-green  of  the 
meadows  in  which  they  grew ;  others  took  note  of  a 
diff'erent  contrast,  made  by  the  ruddy  fields,  where  the 
buckwheat  had  been  cut  and  tied  in  sheaves  (like  stands 
of  arms  around  a  bivouac),  adjoining  other  fields  of  rich 
ploughed  land,  from  which  the  rye  was  already  har- 
vested. Here  and  there  were  dark  slate  roofs  above 
which  puffs  of  white  smoke  were  rising.  The  glittering 
silver  threads  of  the  winding  brooks  caught  the  eye, 
here  and  there,  by  one  of  those  optic  lures  which  render 
the  soul  —  one  knows  not  how  or  wh}-  —  perplexed  and 
dreamy.  The  fragrant  freshness  of  the  autumn  breeze, 
the  stronger  odors  of  the  forest,  rose  like  a  waft  of 
incense  to  the  admirers  of  this  beautiful  region,  who 
noticed  with  delight  its  rare  wild-flowers,  its  vigorous 
vegetation,  and   its   verdure,  worthy  of  P^ngland,  the 


12  The   Chouans. 

very  word  being  common  to  the  two  languages.  A  few 
cattle  gave  life  to  the  scene,  already  so  dramatic.  The 
birds  sang,  filling  the  valley  with  a  sweet,  vague  melody 
that  quivered  in  the  air.  If  a  quiet  imagination  will 
picture  to  itself  these  rich  fluctuations  of  light  and 
shade,  the  vaporous  outline  of  the  mountains,  the  mys- 
terious perspectives  which  were  seen  where  the  trees 
gave  an  opening,  or  the  streamlets  ran,  or  some  coquet- 
tish little  glade  fled  away  in  the  distance ;  if  memory 
will  color,  as  it  were,  this  sketch,  as  fleeting  as  the 
moment  when  it  was  taken,  the  persons  for  whom 
such  pictures  are  not  without  charm  will  have  an  im- 
perfect image  of  the  magic  scene  which  delighted  the 
still  impressionable  souls  of  the  young  officers. 

Thinking  that  the  poor  recruits  must  be  leaving,  with 
regret,  their  own  country  and  their  beloved  customs,  to 
die,  perhaps,  in  foreign  lands,  the}-  involuntarily  ex- 
cused a  tardiness  their  feelings  comprehended.  Then, 
with  the  generosity  natural  to  soldiers,  they  disguised 
their  indulgence  under  an  apparent  desire  to  examine 
into  the  military  position  of  the  land.  But  Hulot, 
whom  we  shall  henceforth  call  the  commandant,  to 
avoid  giving  him  the  inharmonious  title  of  *' chief  of 
a  half-brigade"  was  one  of  those  soldiers  who,  in 
critical  moments,  cannot  be  caught  by  the  charms  of 
a  landscape,  were  they  even  those  of  a  terrestrial  para- 
dise. He  shook  his  head  with  an  impatient  gesture 
and  contracted  the  thick,  black  e3^e brows  which  gave 
so  stern  an  expression  to  his  face. 

"Why  the  devil  don't  they  come  up?"  he  said,  for 
the  second  time,  in  a  hoarse  voice,  roughened  by  the 
toils  of  war. 

* '  You  ask  why  ?  "  replied  a  voice. 


The   Ohouans.  13 

Hearing  these  words,  which  seemed  to  issue  from  a 
horn,  such  as  the  peasants  of  the  western  valleys  use  to 
call  their  flocks,  the  commandant  turned  sharpl}^  round, 
as  if  pricked  by  a  sword,  and  beheld,  close  behind  him, 
a  personage  even  more  fantastic  in  appearance  than  any 
of  those  who  were  now  being  escorted  to  Mayenne  to 
serve  the  Republic.  This  unknown  man,  short  and"-~T  <( 
thick-set  in  figure  and  broad-shouldered,  had  a  head 
like  a  bull,  to  which,  in  fact,  he  bore  more  than  one 
resemblance.  His  nose  seemed  shorter  than  it  was,  on  \ 
account  of  the  thick  nostrils.  His  full  lips,  drawn  from 
the  teeth"  which  were  white  as  snow,  his  large  and  \ 
round  black  eyes  with  their  shaggy  brows,  his  hanging 
ears  and  tawny  hair,  —  seemed  to  belong  far  less  to  our 
fine  Caucasian  race  than  to  a  breed  of  herbivorous 
animals.  The  total  absence  of  all  the  usual  character- 
istics of  the  social  man  made  that  bare  head  still  more 
remarkable.  The  face,  bronzed  by  the  sun  (its  angu- 
lar outlines  presenting  a  sort  of  vague  likeness  to  the  " 
granite  which  forms  the  soil  of  the  region),  was  the 
only  visible  portion  of  the  body  of  this  singular  being. 
From  the  neck  down  he  was  wrapped  in  a  "  sarrau " 
or  smock,  a  sort  of  russet  linen  blouse,  coarser  in 
texture  than  that  of  the  trousers  of  the  less  fortu- 
nate conscripts.  This  "  sarrau,"  in  which  an  antiquary 
would  have  recognized  the  ''  saye,"  or  the  "  sa3^on  "  of 
the  Gauls,  ended  at  his  middle,  where  it  was  fastened 
to  two  leggings  of  goatskin  by  slivers,  or  thongs  of 
wood,  roughly  cut, — some  of  them  still  covered  with 
their  peel  or  bark.  These  hides  of  the  nanny-goat  (to 
give  them  the  name  by  which  they  were  known  to  the 
peasantry)  covered  his  legs  and  thighs,  and  masked  all 
appearance  of  human  shape.     Enormous  sabots  hid  his 


14  The   Chouans. 

feet.  His  long  and  shining  hair  fell  straight,  like  the 
goat's  hair,  on  either  side  of  his  face,  being  parted  in 
the  centre  like  the  hair  of  certain  statues  of  the  Middle- 
Ages  which  are  still  to  be  seen  in  our  cathedrals.  In 
place  of  the  knotty  stick  which  the  conscripts  carried 
over  their  shoulders,  this  man  held  against  his  breast, 
as  though  it  were  a  musket,  a  heavj-  whip,  the  lash  of 
which  was  closel}-  braided  and  seemed  to  be  twice  as 
long  as  that  of  an  ordinary  whip.  The  sudden  appari- 
tion of  this  strange  being  seemed  easily  explained.  At 
first  sight  some  of  the  officers  took  him  for  a  recruit  or 
conscript  (the  words  were  used  indiscriminately)  who 
had  outstripped  the  column.  But  the  commandant  him- 
self was  singularly  surprised  by  the  man's  presence  ;  he 
showed  no  alarm,  but  his  face  grew  thoughtful.  After 
looking  the  intruder  well  over,  he  repeated,  mechani- 
cally, as  if  preoccupied  with  anxious  thought:  "Yes, 
why  don't  they  come  on?  do  j'ou  know,  j-qu?" 

"  Because,"  said  the  gloom}'  apparition,  with  an  accent 
which  proved  his  difficulty  in  speaking  French,  "  there 
Maine  begins"  (pointing  with  his  huge,  rough  hand 
towards  Ernee),  •'  and  Bretagne  ends." 

Then  he  struck  the  ground  sharply  with  the  handle  of 
his  heavy  whip  close  to  the  commandant's  feet.  The 
impression  produced  on  the  spectators  by  the  laconic 
harangue  of  the  stranger  was  like  that  of  a  tom-tom  in 
the  midst  of  tender  music.  But  the  word  "harangue"  is 
insufficient  to  reproduce  the  hatred,  the  desires  of  ven- 
geance expressed  bj*  the  haughty  gesture  of  the  hand,  the 
brevity  of  the  speech,  and  the  look  of  sullen  and  cool- 
blooded  energy  on  the  countenance  of  the  speaker. 
The  coarseness  and  roughness  of  the  man, — chopped 
out,  as  it  seemed  by  an  axe,  with  his  rough  bark  still 


The    Ohouans.  15 

left  on  him,  —  and  the  stupid  ignorance  of  his  features, 
made  him  seem,  for  the  moment,  like  some  half-savage 
demigod.  He  stood  stock-still  in  a  prophetic  attitude, 
as  though  he  were  the  Genius  of  Brittany  rising  from  a 
slumber  of  three  years,  to  renew  a  war  in  which  victor}' 
could  only  be  followed  by  twofold  mourning. 

''  A  pretty  fellow  this  !  '*  thought  Hulot ;  "  he  looks 
to  me  like  the  emissary  of  men  who  mean  to  argue  with 
their  muskets." 

Having  growled  these  words  between  his  teeth,  the 
commandant  cast  his  eyes  in  turn  from  the  man  to 
the  valley,  from  the  valle}^  to  the  detachment,  from  the 
detachment  to  the  steep  acclivities  on  the  right  of  the 
road,  the  ridges  of  which  were  covered  with  the  broom 
and  gorse  of  Brittany ;  then  he  suddenly  turned  them 
full  on  the  stranger,  whom  he  subjected  to  a  mute 
interrogation,  which  he  ended  at  last  by  roughh' 
demanding,    ' '  Where   do   you   come   from  ?  " 

His  eager,  piercing  eye  strove  to  detect  the  secrets 
of  that  impenetrable  face,  which  never  changed  from  the 
vacant,  torpid  expression  in  which  a  peasant  when 
doing  nothing  wraps  himself. 

*'  From  the  country  of  the  Gars,"  replied  the  man, 
without  showing  an}^  uneasiness. 

"  Your  name?  " 

*'  Marche-aTerre." 

*^  Why  do  you  call  yourself  by  your  Chouan  name  in 
defiance  of  the  law?" 

Marche-a-Terre,  to  use  the  name  he  gave  to  himself, 
looked  at  the  commandant  with  so  genuine  an  air  of 
stupidity  that  the  soldier  believed  the  man  had  not 
understood  him. 

"  Do  you  belong  to  the  recruits  from  Foug^res?" 


16  The   Chouans. 

To  this  inquiry  Marche-a-Terre  replied  bj^  the  bucoUc 
"  I  don't  know,"  the  hopeless  imbecilit}"  of  which  puts 
an  end  to  all  inquir3^  He  seated  himself  b}'  the  road- 
side, drew  from  his  smock  a  few  pieces  of  thin,  black 
buckwheat-bread,  —  a  national  delicacy,  the  dismal  de- 
lights of  which  none  but  a  Breton  can  understand,  — 
and  began  to  eat  with  stolid  indifference.  There  seemed 
such  a  total  absence  of  all  human  intelligence  about 
the  man  that  the  officers  compared  him  in  turn  to  the 
cattle  browsing  in  the  valby  pastures,  to  the  savages 
of  America,  or  the  aboriginal  inhabitants  of  the  Cape 
of  Good  Hope.  Deceived  by  his  behavior,  the  com- 
mandant himself  was  about  to  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  his 
own  misgivings,  when,  casting  a  last  prudent  glance  on 
the  man  whom  he  had  taken  for  the  herald  of  an 
approaching  carnage,  he  suddenl}'  noticed  that  the  hair, 
the  smock,  and  the  goatskin  leggings  of  the  stranger  were 
full  of  thorns,  scraps  of  leaves,  and  bits  of  trees  and 
bushes,  as  though  tliis  Chouan  had  lately  made  his  wa}' 
for  a  long  distance  thi'ough  thickets  and  underbrush. 
Hulot  looked  significantly  at  his  adjutant  Gerard  who 
stood  beside  him,  pressed  his  hand  firmly,  and  said  in  a 
low  voice :  "  We  came  for  wool,  but  we  shall  go  back 
sheared." 

The  officers  looked  at  each  other  silentlj'  in  astonish- 
ment. 

It  is  necessary  here  to  make  a  digression,  or  the  fears 
of  the  commandment  will  not  be  intelligible  to  those 
staj'-at-home  persons  who  are  in  the  habit  of  doubting 
everything  because  they  have  seen  nothing,  and  who 
might  therefore  deny  the  existence  of  Marche-i-Terre 
and  the  peasantry  of  the  West,  whose  conduct,  in  the 
times  we  are  speaking  of,  was  often  sublime. 


The   Chouans.  17 

The  word  "  gars  "  pronounced  "  ga"  is  a  relic  of  tlie 
Celtic  language.  It  has  passed  from  low  Breton  into 
French,  and  the  word  in  our  present  speech  has  more 
ancient  associations  than  any  other.  The  ' '  gais  "  was 
the  principal  weapon  of  the  Gauls;  "gaisde"  meant 
armed;  "gais"  courage;  "gas,"  force.  The  word 
has  an  analogy  with  the  Latin  word  "  vir  "  man,  the 
root  of  "virtus"  strength,  courage.  The  present  dis- 
sertation is  excusable  as  of  national  interest ;  besides, 
it  may  help  to  restore  the  use  of  such  words  as  :  "  gars, 
gargon,  gar9onnette,  garce,  garcette,"  now  discarded 
from  our  speech  as  unseemly ;  whereas  their  origin  is 
so  warlike  that  we  shall  use  them  from  time  to  time  in 
the  course  of  this  history.  ' '  She  is  a  famous  '  garce ' !  " 
was  a  compliment  little  understood  by  Madame  de 
Stael  when  it  was  paid  to  her  in  a  little  village  of  La 
Vendee,  where  she  spent  a  few  days  of  her  exile. 

Brittany  is  the  region  in  all  France  where  the  man- 
ners and  customs  of  the  Gauls  have  left  their  strongest 
imprint.  That  portion  of  the  province  where,  even  to 
our  own  times,  the  savage  life  and  superstitious  ideas 
of  our  rude  ancestors  still  continue  —  if  we  may  use  the 
word  —  rampant,  is  called  "  the  country  of  the  Gars." 
When  a  canton  (or  district)  is  inhabited  by  a  number 
of  half-savages  like  the  one  who  has  just  appeared  upon 
the  scene,  the  inhabitants  call  them  "the  Gars  of 
such  or  such  a  parish."  This  classic  name  is  a  reward 
for  the  fidelity  with  which  they  struggle  to  preserve  the 
traditions  of  the  language  and  manners  of  their  Gaelic 
ancestors ;  their  lives  show  to  this  day  many  remark- 
able and  deeply  embedded  vestiges  of  the  beliefs  and 
superstitious  practices  of  those  ancient  times.  Feudal 
customs  are  still  maintained.     Antiquaries  find  Druidic 

2 


18  The   Chouans. 

monuments  still  standing.  The  genius  of  modern  civil- 
ization shrinks  from  forcing  its  way  through  those 
impenetrable  primordial  forests.  An  unheard-of  fero- 
ciousness, a  brutal  obstinacy,  but  also  a  regard  for  the 
sanctity  of  an  oath ;  a  complete  ignoring  of  our  laws, 
our  customs,  our  dress,  our  modern  coins,  our  language, 
but  withal  a  patriarchal  simplicity  and  virtues  that  are 
heroic,  —  unite  in  keeping  the  inhabitants  of  this  region 
more  impoverished  as  to  all  intellectual  knowledge  than 
the  Redskins,  but  also  as  proud,  as  crafty,  and  as  endur- 
ing as  they.  The  position  which  Brittany  occupies  in  the 
centre  of  Europe  makes  it  more  interesting  to  observe 
than  Canada.  Surrounded  by  light  whose  beneficent 
warmth  never  reaches  it,  this  region  is  like  a  frozen 
coal  left  black  in  the  middle  of  a  glowing  fire.  The 
efforts  made  by  several  noble  minds  to  win  tliis  glorious 
part  of  France,  so  rich  in  neglected  treasures,  to  social 
Ufe  and  to  prosperity  have  all,  even  when  sustained  by 
government,  come  to  nought  against  the  inflexibility  of 
a  population  given  over  to  the  habits  of  immemorial 
routine.  This  unfortunate  condition  is  partly  accounted 
for  by  the  nature  of  the  land,  broken  by  ravines,  moun- 
tain torrents,  lakes,  and  marshes,  and  bristling  with 
hedges  or  earth- works  which  make  a  sort  of  citadel 
of  every  field;  without  roads,  without  canals,  and  at 
the  mercy  of  prejudices  which  scorn  our  modern  agri- 
culture. These  will  further  be  shown  with  all  their 
dangers  in  our  present  history. 

The  picturesque  lay  of  the  land  and  the  superstitions 
of  the  inhabitants  prevent  the  formation  of  communi- 
ties and  the  benefits  arising  from  the  exchange  and 
comparison  of  ideas.  There  are  no  villages.  The 
rickety   buildings   which   the   people   call    homes   are 


The  Ohouans.  19 

sparsely  scattered  through  the  wilderness.  Each  family 
lives  as  in  a  desert.  The  onl}-  meetings  among  theni 
are  on  Sundays  and  feast-days  in  the  parish  church. 
These  silent  assemblies,  under  the  63^6  of  tlie  rector 
(the  only  ruler  of  these  rough  minds)  last  some  hours. 
After  listening  to  the  awful  words  of  the  priest  they  re- 
turn to  their  noisome  hovels  for  another  week ;  they 
leave  them  only  to  work,  they  return  to  them  only  to 
sleep.  No  one  ever  visits  them,  unless  it  is  the  rector. 
Consequent!}',  it  was  the  voice  of  the  priesthood  which 
roused  Brittany  against  the  Republic,  and  sent  thou- 
sands of  men,  five  years  before  this  history  begins,  to 
the  support  of  the  first  Chouannerie.  The  brothers 
Cottereau,  whose  name  was  given  to  that  first  up- 
rising, were  bold  smugglers,  plying  their  perilous 
trade  between  Laval  and  Fougeres.  The  insurrec- 
tions of  Brittany  had  nothing  fine  or  noble  about  them  ; 
and  it  may  be  truly  said  that  if  La  Vendue  turned 
its  brigandage  into  a  great  war,  Brittany  turned  war 
into  a  brigandage.  The  proscription  of  fh'inces,  the 
destruction  of  religion,  far  from  inspiring  great  sacri- 
fices, were  to  the  Chouans  pretexts  for  mere  pillage ; 
and  the  events  of  this  intestine  warfare  had  all  the 
savage  moroseness  of  their  own  natures.  When  the 
real  defenders  of  the  monarchy  came  to  recruit  men 
among  these  ignorant  and  violent  people  the}^  vainly 
tried  to  give,  for  the  honor  of  the  white  flag,  some 
grandeur  to  the  enterprises  which  had  hitherto  rendered 
the  brigands  odious :  the  Chouans  remain  in  history  as 
a  memorable  example  of  the  danger  of  uprousing  the 
uncivilized  masses  of  the  nation. 

The  sketch  here  made  of  a  Breton  valley  and  of  the 
Breton  men  in  the  detachment  of  recruits,  more  espe- 


20  The   Chouans. 

daily  that  of  the  "  gars"  who  so  suddenly  appeared  on 
t]je  summit  of  Mont  Pelerine,  gives  a  brief  bat  faithful 
picture  of  the  province  and  its  inhabitants.  A  trained 
imagination  can  by  the  help  of  these  details  obtain 
some  idea  of  the  theatre  of  the  war  and  of  the  men  who 
were  its  instruments.  The  flowering  hedges  of  the 
beautiful  valleys  concealed  the  combatants.  Each  field 
was  a  fortress,  ever}'  tree  an  ambush  ;  the  hollow  trunk 
of  each  old  willow  hid  a  stratagem.  The  place  for  a 
fight  was  everywhere.  Sharpshooters  were  lurking  at 
every  turn  for  the  Blues,  whom  laughing  young  girls, 
unmindful  of  their  perfidy,  attracted  within  range,  — 
for  had  they  not  made  pilgrimages  with  their  fathers 
and  their  brothers,  imploring  to  be  taught  wiles,  and  re- 
ceiving absolution  from  their  wayside  Virgins  of  rotten 
wood?  Religion,  or  rather  the  fetichism  of  these  igno- 
rant creatures,  absolved  such  murders  of  remorse. 

Thus,  when  the  struggle  had  once  begun,  ever}-  part 
of  the  country  was  dangerous,  —  in  fact,  all  things 
were  full  of  peril,  sound  as  well  as  silence,  attraction 
as  well  as  fear,  the  family  hearth  or  the  open  countr}'. 
Treacher}'  was  everywhere,  but  it  was  treachery  from 
conviction.  The  people  were  savages  serving  God  and 
the  King  after  the  fashion  of  Red  Indians.  To  make 
this  sketch  of  the  struggle  exact  and  true  at  all  points,  the 
historian  must  add  that  the  moment  Hoche  had  signed 
his  peace  the  whole  country  subsided  into  smiles  and 
friendhness.  Families  who  were  rending  each  other  to 
pieces  over  night,  were  supping  together  without  danger 
the  next  day. 

The  very  moment  that  Commandant  Hnlot  became 
aware  of  the  secret  treachery  betrayed  by  the  hair}"  skins 
of  Marche-a-Terre,  he  was  convinced  that  this  peace, 


The   Chouans.  21 

due  to  the  genius  of  Hoche,  the  stability  of  which  he 
had  always  doubted,  was  at  an  end.  The  civil  war,  he 
felt,  was  about  to  be  renewed,  —  doubtless  more  terrible 
than  ever  after  a  cessation  of  three  3'ears.  The  Revo- 
lution, mitigated  by  the  events  of  the  9th  Thermidor, 
would  doubtless  return  to  the  old  terrors  which  had 
made  it  odious  to  sound  minds.  English  gold  would, 
as  formed}',  assist  in  the  national  discords.  The  Re- 
public, abandoned  by  young  Bonaparte  who  had  seemed 
to  be  its  tutelary  genius,  was  no  longer  in  a  condition 
to  resist  its  enemies  from  without  and  from  within,  — 
the  worst  and  most  cruel  of  whom  were  the  last  to 
appear.  The  Civil  War,  already  threatened  b}^  various 
partial  risings,  would  assume  a  new  and  far  more 
serious  aspect  if  the  Chouans  were  now  to  attack  so 
strong  an  escort.  Such  were  the  reflections  that  filled 
the  mind  of  the  commander  (though  less  succinctly 
formulated)  as  soon  as  he  perceived,  in  the  condition  of 
Marche-a-Terre's  clothing,  the  signs  of  an  ambush  care- 
fully planned. 

The  silence  which  followed  the  prophetic  remark  of 
the  commandant  to  Gerard  gave  Hulot  time  to  recover 
his  self-possession.  The  old  soldier  had  been  shaken. 
He  could  not  hinder  his  brow  from  clouding  as  he  felt 
himself  surrounded  by  the  horrors  of  a  warfare  the 
atrocities  of  which  would  have  shamed  even  cannibals. 
Captain  Merle  and  the  adjutant  Gerard  could  not  ex- 
plain to  themselves  the  evident  dread  on  the  face  of 
their  leader  as  he  looked  at  Marche-a-Terre  eating  his 
bread  by  the  side  of  the  road.  But  Hulot's  face  soon 
cleared  ;  he  began  to  rejoice  in  the  opportunity  to  fight 
for  the  Republic,  and  he  joyously  vowed  to  escape 
being  the  dupe  of  the  Chouans,  and  to  fathom  the  wily 


22  The   Chouans. 

and  impenetrable  being  whom  they  had  done  him  the 
honor  to  emploj^  against  him. 

Before  taking  any  resolution  he  set  himself  to  study 
the  position  in  which  it  was  evident  the  enemy  intended 
to  surprise  him.  Observing  that  the  road  where  the 
column  had  halted  was  about  to  pass  through  a  sort  of 
gorge,  short  to  be  sure,  but  flanked  with  woods  from 
which  several  paths  appeared  to  issue,  he  frowned 
heavil}^,  and  said  to  his  two  friends,  in  a  low  voice  of 
some  emotion :  — 

*'  We  're  in  a  devil  of  a  wasp's-nest." 

*'  What  do  you  fear  ?  "  asked  Gerard. 

*'Fear?  Yes,  that's  it,  fear,"  returned  the  com- 
mandant. *'  I  have  always  had  a  fear  of  being  shot  like 
a  dog  at  the  edge  of  a  wood,  without  a  chance  of  crying 
out  '  Who  goes  there  ? '  " 

"  Pooh  !  "  said  Merle,  laughing,  "  'Who  goes  there ' 
is  all  humbug." 

"Are  we  in  any  real  danger?"  asked  Gerard,  as 
much  surprised  by  Hulot's  coolness  as  he  was  by  his 
evident  alarm. 

"Hush!"  said  the  commandant,  in  a  low  voice. 
"We  are  in  the  jaws  of  the  wolf;  it  is  as  dark  as  a 
pocket ;  and  we  must  get  some  light.  Luckily,  we  've 
got  the  upper  end  of  the  slope  !  " 

So  saying,  he  moved,  with  his  two  officers,  in  a  way 
to  surround  Marche-a-Terre,  who  rose  quickly,  pre- 
tending to  think   himself  in  the   way. 

"  Stay  where  3'OU  are,  vagabond  !  "  said  Hulot,  keep- 
ing his  e3'e  on  the  apparently  indifferent  face  of  the 
Breton,  and  giving  him  a  push  which  threw  him  back 
on  the  place  where  he  had  been  sitting. 

"  Friends,"  continued  Hulot,  in  a  low  voice,  speak- 


The  Chouans.  23 

ing  to  the  two  officers.  "It  is  time  I  should  tell  3'ou 
that  it  is  all  up  with  the  array  in  Paris.  The  Directory, 
in  consequence  of  a  disturbance  in  the  Assembly,  has 
made  another  clean  sweep  of  our  affairs.  Those  pen- 
tarchs,  —  puppets,  I  call  them, — those  directors  have 
just  lost  a  good  blade  ;  Bernadotte  has  abandoned  them." 

"  Who  will  take  his  place?"  asked  Gerard,  eagerly. 

"  Milet-Mureau,  an  old  blockhead.  A  pretty  time  to 
choose  to  let  fools  sail  the  ship  !  English  rockets  from 
all  the  headlands,  and  those  cursed  Chouan  cockchafers 
in  the  air  !  You  may  rely  upon  it  that  some  one  behind 
those  puppets  pulled  the  wire  when  they  saw  we  were 
getting  the  worst  of  it." 

"  How  getting  the  worst  of  it?  " 

"  Our  armies  are  beaten  at  all  points,"  replied  Hulot, 
sinking  his  voice  still  lower.  "  The  Chouans  have  inter- 
cepted two  couriers  ;  I  only  received  my  despatches  and 
last  orders  by  a  private  messenger  sent  by  Bernadotte 
just  as  he  was  leaving  the  ministry.  Luckily,  friends  have  ^ 
written  me  confidentially  about  this  crisis.  Fouche  has 
discovered  that  the  tyrant  Louis  XVIII.  has  been  ad- 
vised by  traitors  in  Paris  to  send  a  leader  to  his  follow- 
ers in  La  Vendue.  It  is  thought  that  Barras  is  betraying 
the  Republic.  At  any  rate,  Pitt  and  the  princes  have 
sent  a  man,  a  ci-devant,  vigorous,  daring,  full  of  talent, 
who  intends,  by  uniting  the  Chouans  with  the  Vendeans, 
to  pluck  the  cap  of  liberty  from  the  head  of  the  Repub-^ 
lie-  The  fellow  has  lately  landed  in  the  Morbihan ;  I 
was  the  first  to  hear  of  it,  and  I  sent  the  news  to  those 
knaves  in  Paris.  '  The  Gars '  is  the  name  he  goes  by. . 
All  those  beasts,  'he  added,  pointing  to  Marche-k-Terre,' 
stick  on  names  which  would  give  a  stomach-ache  to 
honest  patriots  if  they  bore  them.     The  Gars  is  now  in 


24  The   Chouans. 

this  district.  The  presence  of  that  fellow  "  —  and  again 
he  signed  to  Marche  a-Terre  —  "as  good  as  tells  me  he 
is  on  our  back.  But  the}'  can't  teach  an  old  monke}- 
to  make  faces ;  and  j'ou  Ve  got  to  help  me  to  get  my 
birds  safe  into  their  cage,  and  as  quick  as  a  flash  too. 
A  pretty  fool  I  should  be  if  I  allowed  that  ci-devant, 
who  dares  to  come  from  London  with  his  British  gold, 
to  trap  me  like  a  crow  ! " 

On  learning  these  secret  circumstances,  and  being 
well  aware  that  their  leader  was  never  unnecessarily 
alarmed,  the  two  officers  saw  the  dangers  of  the  posi- 
tion. Gerard  was  about  to  ask  some  questions  on  the 
political  state  of  Paris,  some  details  of  which  Hulot  had 
evidently  passed  over  in  silence,  but  a  sign  from  his 
commander  stopped  him,  and  once  more  drew  the  eyes 
of  all  three  to  the  Chouan.  Marche-a-Terre  gave  no 
sign  of  disturbance  at  being  watched.  The  curiosit}^  of 
the  two  officers,  who  were  new  to  this  species  of  warfare, 
was  greatly  excited  by  this  beginning  of  an  affair  which 
seemed  to  have  an  almost  romantic  interest,  and  they 
began  to  joke  about  it.    But  Hulot  stopped  them  at  once. 

"God's  thunder!"  he  cried.  "Don't  smoke  upon 
the  powder-cask ;  wasting  courage  for  nothing  is  like 
carrying  water  in  a  basket.  Gerard,"  he  added,  in  the 
ear  of  his  adjutant,  "get  nearer,  by  degrees,  to  that 
fellow,  and  watch  him ;  at  the  first  suspicious  action 
put  3*our  sword  through  him.  As  for  me,  I  must  take 
measures  to  carry  on  the  ball  if  our  unseen  adversaries 
choose  to  open  it." 

The  Chouan  paid  no  attention  to  the  movements  of 
the  3"oung  officer,  and  continued  to  play  with  his  whip, 
and  fling  out  the  lash  of  it  as  though  he  were  fishing  in 
the  ditch. 


The   Chouans.  25 

Meantime  the  commandant  was  saying  to  Merle,  in 
a  low  voice :  "Give  ten  picked  men  to  a  sergeant,  and 
post  them  yourself  above  us  on  the  summit  of  this  slope, 
just  where  the  path  widens  to  a  ledge  ;  there  you  ought 
to  see  the  whole  length  of  the  route  to  Ern^e.  Choose 
a  position  where  the  road  is  not  flanked  by  woods,  and 
where  the  sergeant  can  overlook  the  country.  Take 
Clef-dea-Coeurs ;  he  is  very  intelligent.  This  is  no 
laughing  matter;  I  wouldn't  give  a  farthing  for  our 
skins  if  we  don't  turn  the  odds  in  our  favor  at  once." 

While  Merle  was  executing  this  order  with  a  rapiditj'^ 
of  which  he  fully  understood  the  importance,  the  com- 
mandant waved  his  right  hand  to  enforce  silence  on  the 
soldiers,  who  were  standing  at  ease,  and  laughing  and 
joking  around  him.  With  another  gesture  he  ordered 
them  to  take  up  arms.  When  quiet  was  restored  he 
turned  his  eyes  from  one  end  of  the  road  to  the  other, 
listened  with  anxious  attention  as  though  he  hoped  to 
detect  some  stifled  sound,  some  echo  of  weapons,  or 
steps  which  might  give  warning  of  the  expected  attack. 
His  black  eye  seemed  to  pierce  the  woods  to  an  extraor- 
dinary depth.  Perceiving  no  indications  of  danger,  he 
next  consulted,  like  a  savage,  the  ground  at  his  feet, 
to  discover,  if  possible,  the  trail  of  the  invisible  enemies 
whose  daring  was  well  known  to  him.  Desperate  at 
seeing  and  hearing  nothing  to  justify  his  fears,  he  turned 
aside  from  the  road  and  ascended,  not  without  difficulty, 
one  or  two  hillocks.  The  other  officers  and  the  soldiers, 
observing  the  anxiety  of  a  leader  in  whom  they  trusted 
and  whose  worth  was  known  to  them,  knew  that  his 
extreme  watchfulness  meant  danger ;  but  not  suspect- 
ing its  imminence,  they  merely  stood  still  and  held  their 
breaths  by  instinct.     Like  dogs  endeavoring  to  gues^ 


26  The   Chouana. 

the  intentions  of  a  huntsman,  whose  orders  are  incompre- 
hensible to  them  though  they  faithfully  obey  him,  the 
soldiers  gazed  in  turn  at  the  valley,  at  the  woods  by  the 
roadside,  at  the  stern  face  of  their  leader,  endeavoring 
to  read  their  fate.  They  questioned  each  other  with 
their  eyes,  and  more  than  one  smile  ran  from  lip  to  lip. 

When  Hulot  returned  to  his  men  with  an  anxious 
look,  Beau-Pied,  a  young  sergeant  who  passed  for  the 
wit  of  his  company,  remarked  in  a  low  voice  :  "  Where 
the  deuce  have  we  poked  ourselves  that  an  old  trooper 
like  Hulot  should  pull  such  a  gloomy  face  ?  He 's  as 
solemn  as  a  council  of  war." 

Hulot  gave  the  speaker  a  stern  look,  silence  being 
ordered  in  the  ranks.  In  the  hush  that  ensued,  the 
lagging  steps  of  the  conscripts  on  the  creaking  sand  of 
the  road  produced  a  recurrent  sound  which  added  a  sort 
of  vague  emotion  to  the  general  excitement.  This  inde- 
finable feeling  can  be  understood  only  by  those  who 
have  felt  their  hearts  beat  in  the  silence  of  the  night 
from  a  painful  expectation  heightened  by  some  noise, 
the  monotonous  recurrence  of  which  seems  to  distil 
terror   into   their   minds,   drop   by   drop. 

The  thought  of  the  commandant,  as  he  returned  to 
his  men,  was:  "Can  I  be  mistaken?"  He  glanced, 
with  a  concentrated  anger  which  flashed  like  lightning 
from  his  e3^es,  at  the  stolid,  immovable  Chouan  ;  a  look 
of  savage  iron}^  which  he  fancied  he  detected  in  the 
man's  eyes,  warned  him  not  to  relax  in  his  precautions. 
Just  then  Captain  Merle,  having  obeyed  Hulot's  orders, 
returned  to  his  side. 

"We  did  well,  captain,"  said  the  commandant,  "to 
put  the  few  men  whose  patriotism  we  can  count  upon 
among  those  conscripts  at  the  rear.     Take  a  dozen  more 


The  Ohouans.  27 

of  our  own  bravest  fellows,  with  sub-lieutenant  Lebrun 
at  their  head,  and  make  a  rear-guard  of  them  ;  they  '11 
support  the  patriots  who  are  there  already,  and  help  to 
shove  on  that  flock  of  birds  and  close  up  the  distance 
between  us.     I'll  wait  for  you." 

The  captain  disappeared.  The  commander's  eye 
singled  out  four  men  on  whose  intelligence  and  quick- 
ness he  knew  he  might  rely,  and  he  beckoned  to  them, 
silently,  with  the  well-known  friendly  gesture  of  moving 
the  right  forefinger  rapidly  and  repeatedly  toward  the 
nose.    They  came  to  him. 

"  You  served  with  me  under  Hoche,"  he  said,  ''  when 
we  brought  to  reason  those  brigands  who  call  them- 
selves '  Chasseurs  du  Roi ; '  you  know  how  they  hid 
themselves  to  swoop  down  on  the  Blues." 

At  this  commendation  of  their  intelligence  the  four 
soldiers  nodded  with  significant  grins.  Their  hero- 
ically martial  faces  wore  that  look  of  careless  resignation 
to  fate  which  evidenced  the  fact  that  since  the  struggle 
had  begun  between  France  and  Europe,  the  ideas  of  the 
private  soldiers  had  never  passed  beyond  the  cartridge- 
boxes  on  their  backs  or  the  baj'onets  in  front  of  them. 
With  their  lips  drawn  together  like  a  purse  when  the 
strings  are  tightened,  they  looked  at  their  commander 
attentively  with  inquiring  eyes. 

*'  You  know,"  continued  Hulot,  who  possessed  the 
art  of  speaking  picturesquely  as  soldier  to  soldiers, 
"that  it  won't  do  for  old  hares  like  us  to  be  caught 
napping  by  the  Chouans,  —  of  whom  there  are  plenty 
all  round  us,  or  my  name 's  not  Hulot.  You  four  are 
to  march  in  advance  and  beat  up  both  sides  of  this 
road.  The  detachment  will  hang  fire  here.  Keep 
your  eyes  about  you ;  don't  get  picked  off ;  and  bring 
me  news  of  what  you  find  —  quick  !  " 


28  The   Chouans. 

So  sa^dng  he  waved  his  hand  towards  the  suspected 
heights  along  the  road.  The  four  men,  by  way  of 
thanks  raised  the  backs  of  their  hands  to  their  battered 
old  three-cornered  hats,  discolored  by  rain  and  ragged 
with  age,  and  bent  their  bodies  double.  One  of  them, 
named  Larose,  a  corporal  well-known  to  Hulot,  re- 
marked as  he  clicked  his  musket:  "  We'll  play  'em  a 
tune  on  the  clarinet,  commander." 

They  started,  two  to  right  and  two  to  left  of  the 
road ;  and  it  was  not  without  some  excitement  that 
their  comrades  watched  them  disappear.  The  com- 
mandant himself  feared  that  he  had  sent  them  to  their 
deaths,  and  an  involuntary  shudder  seized  him  as  he 
saw  the  last  of  them.  Officers  and  soldiers  listened 
to  the  gradually  lessening  sound  of  their  footsteps,  with 
feelings  all  the  more  acute  because  they  were  carefulW 
hidden.  There  are  occasions  when  the  risk  of  four 
lives  causes  more  excitement  and  alarm  than  all  the 
slain  at  Jemmapes.  The  faces  of  those  trained  to  war 
have  such  various  and  fugitive  expressions  that  a 
painter  who  has  to  describe  them  is  forced  to  appeal  to 
the  recollections  of  soldiers  and  to  leave  civiUans  to 
imagine  these  dramatic  figures ;  for  scenes  so  rich  in 
detail  cannot  be  rendered  in  writing,  except  at  inter- 
minable length. 

Just  as  the  bayonets  of  the  four  men  were  finally  lost 
to  sight,  Captain  Merle  returned,  having  executed  the 
commander's  orders  with  rapidity.  Hulot,  with  two  or 
three  sharp  commands,  put  his  troop  in  line  of  battle  and 
ordered  it  to  return  to  the  summit  of  La  Pelerine  where 
his  little  advanced-guard  were  stationed ;  walking  last 
himself  and  looking  backward  to  note  any  changes  that 
might  occur  in  a  scene  which   Nature   had   made  so 


The   Chouans.  29 

lovely,  and  man  so  terrible.  As  he  reached  the  spot 
where  he  had  left  the  Chouan,  Marche-a-Terre,  who  had 
seen  with  apparent  indifference  the  various  movements 
of  the  commander,  but  was  now  watching  with  extraor- 
dinary intelligence  the  two  soldiers  in  the  woods  to  the 
right,  suddenly  gave  the  shrill  and  piercing  cry  of  the 
c/iouette,  or  screech-owl.  The  three  famous  smugglers 
already  mentioned  were  in  the  habit  of  using  the  vari- 
ous mtonations  of  this  cry  to  warn  each  other  of  danger 
or  of  an}^  event  that  might  concern  them.  From  this 
came  the  nickname  of  "  Chuin  "  which  means  chouette 
or  owl  in  the  dialect  of  that  region.  This  corrupted 
word  came  finally  to  mean  the  whole  body  of  those 
who,  in  the  first  uprising,  imitated  the  tactics  and  the 
signals  of  the  smugglers. 

When  Hulot  heard  that  suspicious  sound  he  stopped 
short  and  examined  the  man  intentl}' ;  then  he  feigned 
to  be  taken  in  by  his  stupid  air,  wishing  to  keep  him 
by  him  as  a  barometer  which  might  indicate  the  move- 
ments of  the  enem3^  He  therefore  checked  Gerard, 
whose  hand  was  on  his  sword  to  despatch  him  ;  but  he 
placed  two  soldiers  beside  the  man  he  now  felt  to  be  a 
spy,  and  ordered  them  in  a  loud,  clear  voice  to  shoot 
him  at  the  next  sound  he  made.  In  spite  of  his  immi- 
nent danger  Marche-k-Terre  showed  not  the  slightest 
emotion.  The  commandant,  who  was  studying  him, 
took  note  of  this  apparent  insensibility,  and  remarked 
to  Gerard :  "  That  fool  is  not  so  clever  as  he  means  to 
be  !  It  is  far  from  easy  to  read  the  face  of  a  Chouan, 
but  the  fellow  betrays  himself  by  his  anxiety  to  show 
his  nerve.  Ha  !  ha !  if  he  had  only  pretended  fear  I 
should  have  taken  him  for  a  stupid  brute.  He  and  I 
might  have  made  a  pair !    I  came  very  near  falling  into 


30  The   Chouans. 

the  trap.     Yes,  we  shall  undoubtedly  be  attacked ;  but 
let  'em  come  ;  I  'm  all  ready  now." 

As  he  said  these  words  in  a  low  voice,  rubbing  his 
hands  with  an  air  of  satisfaction,  he  looked  at  the 
Chouan  with  a  jeering  eye.  Then  he  crossed  his  arms 
on  his  breast  and  stood  in  the  road  with  his  favorite 
officers  beside  him  awaiting  the  result  of  his  arrange- 
ments. Certain  that  a  fight  was  at  hand,  he  looked  at 
his  men  composedl}'. 

"There'll  be  a  row,"  said  Beau-Pied  to  his  com- 
rades in  a  low  voice.  "  See,  the  commandant  is  rub- 
bing his  hands." 

In  critical  situations  like  that  in  which  the  detachment 
and  its  commander  were  now  placed,  life  is  so  clearl}^  at 
stake  that  men  of  nerve  make  it  a  point  of  honor  to 
show  coolness  and  self-possession.  These  are  the  mo- 
ments in  which  to  judge  men's  souls.  The  command- 
ant, better  informed  of  the  danger  than  his  two  officers, 
took  pride  in  showing  his  tranquillity.  With  his  ejes 
moving  from  Marche-a-Terre  to  the  road  and  thence  to 
the  woods  he  stood  expecting,  not  without  dread,  a  gen 
eral  volley  from  the  Chouans,  whom  he  believed  to  be 
hidden  like  brigands  all  around  him ;  but  his  face  re- 
mained impassible.  Knowing  that  the  eyes  of  the 
soldiers  were  turned  upon  him,  he  wrinkled  his  brown 
cheeks  pitted  with  the  small-pox,  screwed  his  upper  lip, 
and  winked  his  right  e^^e,  a  grimace  always  taken  for 
a  smile  by  his  men ;  then  he  tapped  Gerard  on  the 
shoulder  and  said  :  "  Now  that  things  are  quiet  tell  me 
what  you  wanted  to  sa}-  just  now." 

"  I  wanted  to  ask  what  this  new  crisis  means,  com- 
mandant? "  was  the  reply. 

"It  is   not  new,"   said    Hulot.      "All   Europe  is 


The   Chouans.  31 

against  us,  and  this  time  she  has  got  the  whip  hand. 
While  those  Directors  are  fighting  together  like  horses 
in  a  stable  without  any  oats,  and  letting  the  government 
go  to  bits,  the  armies  are  left  without  supplies  or  rein- 
forcements.    We  are  getting  the  worst  of  it  in  Italy ; 
we  've  evacuated  Mantua  after  a  series  of  disasters  on 
the  Trebia,  and  Joubert  has  just  lost  a  battle  at  Novi. 
I  only  hope  Masseua  may  be  able  to  hold  the  Swiss 
passes  against  Suwarrow.    We  're  done  for  on  the  Rhine^ 
The  Directory  have  sent  Moreau.    The  question  is,  Can  V 
he  defend  the  frontier?     I  hope  he  may,  but  the  Coali- 
tion will  end  by  invading  us,  and  the  only  general  able 
to  save  the  nation  is,  unluckil}',  down  in  that  devilish 
Egypt ;  and  how  is  he  ever  to  get  back,  with  England^ 
mistress  of  the  Mediterranean  ?  " 

"  Bonaparte's  absence  doesn't  trouble  me,  command- 
ant," said  the  young  adjutant  Gerard,  whose  intelligent 
mind  had  been  developed  by  a  fine  education.  "  I  am 
certain  the  Revolution  cannot  be  brought  to  naught. 
Ha !  we  soldiers  have  a  double  mission,  —  not  merely  to 
defend  French  territory,  but  to  preserve  the  national 
soul,  the  generous  principles  of  liberty,  independence, 
the  rights  of  human  reason  awakened  by  our  Assemblies 
and  gaining  strength,  as  I  believe,  from  day  to  day. 
France  is  Uke  a  traveller  bearing  a  light :  he  protects 
it  with  one  hand,  and  defends  himself  with  the  other. 
If  your  news  is  true,  we  have  never  for  the  last  ten 
years  been  so  surrounded  with  people  trying  to  blow 
it  out.  Principles  and  nation  are  in  danger  of  perishing 
together." 

"Alas,  5'es,"  said  Hulot,  sighing.  "Those  clowns 
of  Directors  have  managed  to  quarrel  with  all  the  men 
who  could   sail  the  ship.     Bernadotte,  Carnot,  all  of 


32  The   Chouans. 

them,  even  Talle3Tand,  have  deserted  us.  There's  not 
a  single  good  patriot  left,  except  friend  Fouch^,  who 
holds  'em  through  the  police.  There 's  a  man  for  3'ou  ! 
It  was  he  who  warned  me  of  the  coming  insurrection  ; 
and  here  we  are,  sure  enough,  caught  in  a  trap." 

"If  the  armj'  doesn't  take  things  in  hand  and 
manage  the  government,"  said  Gerard,  "  those  law- 
yers in  Paris  will  put  us  back  just  where  we  were  be- 
fore the  Revolution.  A  parcel  of  ninnies  !  what  do  the}' 
know  about  governing?  " 

"  I  'm  always  afraid  they  '11  treat  with  the  Bourbons," 
said  Hulot.  "  Thunder  !  if  they  did  that  a  pretty  pass 
we  should  be  in,  we  soldiers  !  " 

"  No,  no,  commandant,  it  won't  come  to  that,"  said 
Gerard.  "  The  army,  as  you  say,  will  raise  its  voice, 
and  —  provided  it  does  n't  choose  its  words  from  Piche- 
gru's  vocabulaiy  —  I  am  persuaded  we  have  not  hacked 
ourselves  to  pieces  for  the  last  ten  3^ears  merely  to  ma- 
nure the  flax  and  let  others  spin  the  thread." 

"  Well,"  interposed  Captain  Merle,  "  what  we  have 
to  do  now  is  to  act  as  good  patriots  and  prevent  the 
Chouans  from  communicating  with  La  Vendee ;  for,  if 
they  once  come  to  an  understanding  and  England  gets 
her  finger  into  the  pie,  I  would  n't  answer  for  the  cap  of 
the  Republic,  one  and  indivisible." 

As  he  spoke  the  cry  of  an  owl,  heard  at  a  distance, 
interrupted  the  conversation.  Again  the  commander 
I  examined  Marche-^-Terre,  whose  impassible  face  still 
y^^ve  no  sign.  The  conscripts,  their  ranks  closed  up 
by  an  oflScer,  now  stood  like  a  herd  of  cattle  in  the  road, 
about  a  hundred  feet  distant  from  the  escort,  which  was 
drawn  up  in  line  of  battle.  Behind  them  stood  the 
rear-guard  of  soldiers  and  patriots,  picked  men,  com- 


\:, 


The   Chouans.  33 

manded  b}^  Lieutenant  Lebrun.  Hulot  cast  his  eyes 
over  this  arrangement  of  his  forces  and  looked  again  at 
the  picket  of  men  posted  in  advance  upon  the  road. 
Satisfied  with  what  he  saw  he  was  about  to  give  the  order 
to  march,  when  the  tricolor  cockades  of  the  two  soldiers 
he  had  sent  to  beat  the  woods  to  the  left  caught  his  eye  ; 
he  waited  therefore  till  the  two  others,  who  had  gone  to 
the  right,  should  reappear. 

"  Perhaps  the  ball  will  open  over  there,"  he  said  to 
his  officers,  pointing  to  the  woods  from  which  the  two 
men  did  not  emerge. 

While  the  first  two  made  their  report  Hulot's  atten- 
tion was  distracted  momentarily  from  Marche-a-Terre. 
The  Chouan  at  once  sent  his  owl's-cry  to  an  apparently 
vast  distance,  and  before  the  men  who  guarded  him 
could  raise  their  muskets  and  take  aim  he  had  struck 
them  a  blow  with  his  whip  which  felled  them,  and 
rushed  away.  A  terrible  discharge  of  fire-arms  from 
the  woods  just  above  the  place  where  the  Chouan  had 
been  sitting  brought  down  six  or  eight  soldiers. 
Marche-a-Terre,  at  whom  several  men  had  fired  with- 
out touching  him,  vanished  into  the  woods  after  climb- 
ing the  slope  with  the  agility  of  a  wild-cat ;  as  he  did 
so  his  sabots  rolled  into  the  ditch  and  his  feet  were 
seen  to  be  shod  with  the  thick,  hobnailed  shoes  always 
worn  by  the  Chouans. 

At  the  first  cries  uttered  by  the  Chouans,  the  con- 
scripts sprang  into  the  woods  to  the  right  like  a  flock  of 
birds  taking  flight  at  the  approach  of  a  man. 

''  Fire  on  those  scoundrels  !  "  cried  Hulot. 

The  company  fired,  but  the  conscripts  knew  well  how 
to  shelter  themselves  behind  trees,  and  before  the 
soldiers   could  reload   they   were   out  of  sight. 

3 


A.. 


34  The   Chouans. 

*' What's  the  use  of  decreeing  levies  in  the  depart- 
ments?" said  Halot.  "It  is  only  such  idiots  as  the 
Directory  who  would  expect  any  good  of  a  draft  in  this 
region.  The  Assembly  had  much  better  stop  voting 
more  shoes  and  money  and  munitions,  and  see  that  we 
get  what  belongs  to  us." 

At  this  moment  the  two  skirmishers  sent  out  on  the 
right  were  seen  returning  with  evident  difficult}'.  The 
one  that  was  least  wounded  supported  his  comrade, 
whose  blood  was  moistening  the  earth.  The  two  poor 
fellows  were  half-way  down  the  slope  when|Marche-a- 
Terre  showed  his  ugly  face,  and  took  so  true  an  aim 
that  both  Blues  fell  together  and  rolled  heavil}'  into  the 
ditch.  The  Chouan's  monstrous  head  was  no  sooner 
seen  than  thirty  muzzles  were  levelled  at  him,  but,  like 
a  figure  in  a  pantomime,  he  disappeared  in  a  second 
among  the  tufts  of  gorse.  These  events,  which  have 
taken  so  many  words  to  tell,  happened  instantaneously, 
and  in  another  moment  the  rear-guard  of  patriots  and 
soldiers  joined  the  main  body  of  the  escort. 

"  Forward  !  "  cried  Hulot. 

The  company  moved  quickly  to  the  higher  and  more 
open  ground  on  which  the  picket  guard  was  already 
stationed.  There,  the  commander,  formed  his  troop 
once  more  in  line  of  battle  ;  but,  as  the  Chouans  made 
no  further  hostile  demonstrations,  he  began  to  think 
that  the  deliverance  of  the  conscripts  might  have  been 
the  sole  object  of  the  ambuscade. 

*' Their  cries, '^  he  said  to  his  two  friends,  "prove 
that  they  are  not  numerous.  We  '11  advance  at  a  quick 
step,  and  possibly  we  ma}-  be  able  to  reach  Ernee 
without  getting  them  on  our  backs." 

These  words  were  overheard  by  one  of  the  patriot 


The   Choiians.  35 

conscripts,  who  stepped  from  the  ranks,  and  said 
respectfully :  — 

"  General,  I  have  already  fought  the  Chouans  ;  may 
r  be  allowed  a  word  ?  " 

''A  lawyer,"  whispered  Hulot  to  Merle.  "They 
always  want  to  harangue.  Argue  away,"  he  said  to 
the  young  man. 

"  General,  the  Chouans  have  no  doubt  brought  arms 
for  those  escaped  recruits.  Now,  if  we  try  to  outmarch 
them,  they  will  catch  us  in  the  woods  and  shoot  every 
one  of  us  before  we  can  get  to  Ern^e.  We  must  argue, 
as  you  call  it,  with  cartridges.  During  the  skirmish, 
which  will  last  more  time  than  you  think  for,  some  of 
us  ought  to  go  back  and  fetch  the  National  Guard  and 
the  militia  from  Fougeres." 

"  Then  you  think  there  are  a  good  many  Chouans?" 

"Judge  for  yourself,  citizen  commander." 

He  led  Hulot  to  a  place  where  the  sand  had  been 
stirred  as  with  a  rake ;  then  he  took  him  to  the  open- 
ing of  a  wood-path,  where  the  leaves  were  scattered 
and  trampled  into  the  earth,  —  unmistakable  signs  of 
the  passage  of  a  large  body  of  men. 

"Those  were  the  'gars'  from  Vitr^,"  said  the  man, 
who  came  himself  from  Fougeres  ;  "they  are  on  their 
way  to  Lower  Normandy." 

"  What  is  your  name?"  asked  Hulot. 

"  Gudin,  commander." 

"Well,  then,  Gudin,  I  make  you  a  corporal.  You 
seem  to  me  trustworthy.  Select  a  man  to  send  to 
Fougeres  ;  but  stay  yourself  by  me.  In  the  first  place, 
however,  take  two  or  three  of  your  comrades  and  bring 
in  the  muskets  and  ammunition  of  the  poor  fellows 
those   brigands    have    rolled    into   the   ditch.     These 


36  The   Chouans. 

Bretons,"  added  Hulot  to  Gerard,  "will  make  famous 
infantry  if  they  take  to  rations." 

Gudin's  emissary  started  on  a  run  to  Fougeres  b}'  a 
wood-road  to  the  left ;  the  soldiers  looked  to  their  arms, 
and  awaited  an  attack  ;  the  commandant  passed  along 
their  line,  smiling  to  them,  and  then  placed  himself, 
with  his  officers,  a  little  in  front  of  it.  Silence  fell 
once  more,  but  it  was  of  short  duration.  Three  hundred 
or  more  Chouans,  their  clothing  identical  with  that  of 
the  late  recruits,  burst  from  the  woods  to  the  right  with 
actual  howls  and  planted  themselves,  without  an}'  sem- 
blance of  order,  on  the  road  directly  in  front  of  the  feeble 
detachment  of  the  Bkies.  The  commandant  thereupon 
ranged  his  soldiers  in  two  equal  parts,  each  with  a  front 
of  ten  men.  Between  them,  he  placed  the  twelve  re- 
cruits, to  whom  he  hastily  gave  arms,  putting  himself 
at  their  head.  This  little  centre  was  protected  b}'  the 
two  wings,  of  twentj'-five  men  each,  which  manoeuvred 
on  either  side  the  road  under  the  orders  of  Merle  and 
Gerard  ;  their  object  being  to  catch  the  Chouans  on  the 
flank  and  prevent  them  from  posting  themselves  as 
sharp-shooters  among  the  trees,  where  they  could  pick 
off  the  Blues  without  risk  to  themselves ;  for  in  these 
wars  the  Republican  troops  never  knew  where  to  look 
for  an  enemy. 

These  arrangements,  hastily  made,  gave  confidence 
to  the  soldiers,  and  they  advanced  in  silence  upon  the 
Chouans.  At  the  end  of  a  few  seconds  each  side  fired, 
with  the  loss  of  several  men.  At  this  moment  the  two 
wings  of  the  Republicans,  to  whom  the  Chouans  had 
nothing  to  oppose,  came  upon  their  flanks,  and,  with  a 
close,  quick  voile}-,  sent  death  and  disorder  among 
the  enemy.     This  manoeuvre  very  nearly  equalized  the 


The   Chouans.  37 

numerical  strength  of  the  two  parties.  But  the  Chouan 
nature  was  so  intrepid,  their  will  so  firm,  that  they  did 
not  give  way  ;  their  losses  scarcely  staggered  them  ; 
they  simply  closed  up  and  attempted  to  surround  the 
dark  and  well-formed  little  party  of  the  Blues,  which 
covered  so  little  ground  that  it  looked  from  a  distance 
like  a  queen-bee  surrounded  by  the  swarm. 

The  Chouans  might  have  carried  the  da}^  at  this 
moment  if  the  two  wings  commanded  by  Merle  and 
Gerard  had  not  succeeded  in  getting  in  two  volleys 
which  took  them  diagonally  on  their  rear.  The  Blues 
of  the  two  wings  ought  to  have  remained  in  position 
and  continued  to  pick  off  in  this  way  their  terrible  ene- 
mies ;  but  excited  by  the  danger  of  their  little  main 
body,  then  completely  surrounded  by  the  Chouans,  they 
flung  themselves  headlong  into  the  road  with  fixed 
bayonets  and  made  the  battle  even  for  a  few  moments. 
Both  sides  fought  with  a  stubbornness  intensified  by  the 
cruel t}'  and  fury  of  the  partisan  spirit  which  made  this 
war  exceptional.  Each  man,  observant  of  danger,  was 
silent.  The  scene  was  gloomy  and  cold  as  death  itself. 
Nothing  was  heard  through  the  clash  of  arms  and  the 
grinding  of  the  sand  under  foot  but  the  moans  and 
exclamations  of  those  who  fell,  either  dead  or  badly 
wounded.  The  twelve  loyal  recruits  in  the  republican 
main  body  protected  the  commandant  (who  was  guid- 
ing his  men  and  giving  orders)  with  such  courage  that 
more  than  once  several  of  the  soldiers  called  out 
' '  Bravo,  conscripts  !  " 

Hulot,  imperturbable  and  with  an  eye  to  everything, 
presently  remarked  among  the  Chouans  a  man  who, 
like  himself,  was  evidently  surrounded  b}'  picked  men, 
and  was  therefore,  no  doubt,  the  leader  of  the  attacking 


38  The   Chouans. 

party.  He  was  anxious  to  see  this  man  distinctl}^  and 
he  made  many  efforts  to  distinguish  his  features,  but  in 
vain ;  they  were  hidden  by  the  red  caps  and  broad- 
brimmed  hats  of  those  about  him.  Hulot  did,  however, 
see  Marche-a-Terre  beside  this  leader,  repeating  his 
orders  in  a  hoarse  voice,  his  own  carbine,  meanwhile, 
being  far  from  inactive.  The  commandant  -grew  im- 
patient at  being  thus  baffled.  Waving  his  sword,  he 
urged  on  the  recruits  and  charged  the  centre  of  the 
Chouans  with  such  fury  that  he  broke  through  their 
line  and  came  close  to  their  chief,  whose  face,  however, 
was  still  hidden  by  a  broad-brimmed  felt  hat  with  a 
white  cockade.  But  the  invisible  leader,  surprised  at 
so  bold  an  attack,  retreated  a  step  or  two  and  raised 
his  hat  abruptly,  thus  enabUng  Hulot  to  get  a  hasty 
idea  of  his  appearance. 

He  was  young,  —  Hulot  thought  him  to  be  about 
twent3^-five ;  he  wore  a  hunting-jacket  of  green  cloth, 
and  a  white  belt  containing  pistols.  His  heavy  shoes 
were  hobnailed  like  those  of  the  Chouans  ;  leather  leg- 
gings came  to  his  knees  covering  the  ends  of  his 
breeches  of  very  coarse  drilling,  and  completing  a  cos- 
tume which  showed  off  a  slender  and  well-poised  figure 
of  medium  height.  Furious  that  the  Blues  should  thus 
have  approached  him,  he  pulled  his  liat  again  over  his 
face  and  sprang  towards  them.  But  he  was  instantly 
surrounded  by  Marche-a-Terre  and  several  Cliouans. 
Hulot  thought  he  perceived  between  the  heads  which 
clustered  about  this  young  leader,  a  broad  red  ribbon 
worn  across  his  chest.  The  eyes  of  the  commandant, 
caught  by  this  roj-al  decoration  (then  almost  forgotten 
by  republicans),  turned  quickly  to  the  3^oung  man's  ftice, 
which,  however,  he  soon   lost  sight  of  under  the  ne- 


The   Chouans,  39 

cessity  of  controlling  and  protecting  his  own  little  troop. 
Though  he  had  barely  time  to  notice  a  pair  of  brilliant 
eyes  (the  color  of  which  escaped  him),  fair  hair  and 
delicate  features  bronzed  by  the  sun,  he  was  much 
struck  b}'  the  dazzling  whiteness  of  tlie  neck,  relieved 
b}^  a  black  cravat  carelessly  knotted.  The  fiery  atti- 
tude of  the  young  leader  proved  him  to  be  a  soldier  of 
the  stamp  of  those  who  bring  a  certain  conventional 
poesy  into  battle.  His  well-gloved  hand  waved  above 
his  head  a  sword  which  gleamed  in  the  sunlight.  His 
whole  person  gave  an  impression  both  of  elegance  and 
strength.  An  air  of  passionate  self-devotion,  enhanced 
by  the  charms  of  youth  and  distinguished  manners, 
made  this  emigre  a  graceful  image  of  the  French  no- 
blesse. He  presented  a  strong  contrast  to  Hulot,  who, 
ten  feet  distant  from  him,  was  quite  as  vivid  an  image 
of  the  vigorous  Republic  for  which  the  old  soldier  was 
fighting ;  his  stern  face,  his  well-worn  blue  uniform 
with  its  shabby  red  facings  and  its  blackened  epaulettes 
hanging  back  of  his  shoulders,  being  visible  signs  of  its 
needs  and  character. 

The  graceful  attitude  and  expression  of  the  young 
man  were  not  lost  on  the  commandant,  who  exclaimed 
as  he  pressed  towards  him:  "  Come  on,  opera-dancer, 
come  on,  and  let  me  crush  j-ou  !  " 

The  royalist  leader,  provoked  by  his  momentary  dis- 
advantage, advanced  with  an  angry  movement,  but  at 
the  same  moment  the  men  who  were  about  him  rushed 
forward  and  flung  themselves  with  fury  on  the  Blues. 
Suddenly  a  soft,  clear  voice  was  heard  above  the  din 
of  battle  sajang:  "Here  died  Saint-Lescure !  Shall 
we  not  avenge  him  ?  " 

At  the  magic  words  the  eflTorts  of  the  Chouans  be- 


40  The  Chouans, 

came  terrible,  and  the  soldiers  of  the  Republic  had  great 
difficulty  in  maintaining  themselves  without  breaking 
their  little  line  of  battle. 

"If  he  was  n't  a  young  man,"  thought  Hulot,  as  he 
retreated  step  by  step,  "we  shouldn't  have  been  at- 
tacked in  this  way.  Who  ever  heard  of  the  Chouans 
fighting  an  open  battle?  Well,  all  the  better!  they 
won't  shoot  us  off  like  dogs  along  the  road."  Then, 
raising  his  voice  till  it  echoed  through  the  woods,  he 
exclaimed:  "Come  on,  m}'  men!  Shall  we  let  our- 
selves befooled  by  those  brigands?  " 

The  word  here  given  is  but  a  feeble  equivalent  of  the 
one  the  brave  commander  used ;  but  everj^  veteran  can 
substitute  the  real  one,  which  was  far  more  soldierly  in 
character. 

"  Gerard  !  Merle  !"  added  Hulot,  "  call  in  your  men, 
form  them  into  a  battalion,  take  the  rear,  fire  upon 
those  dogs,  and  let 's  make  an  end  of  this ! " 

The  order  was  difficult  to  obej-,  for  the  3'oung  chief, 
hearing  Hulot's  voice,  cried  out:  "  By  Saint  Anne  of 
Auray,  don't  let  them  get  away  !  Spread  out,  spread  out, 
my  lads  !  "  and  each  of  the  two  wings  of  the  Blues  was 
followed  by  Cliouans  who  were  fully  as  obstinate  and 
far  superior  in  numbers.  The  Republicans  were  sur- 
rounded on  all  sides  by  the  Goatskins  uttering  their 
savage  cries,  which  were  more  like  howls. 

"Hold  your  tongues,  gentlemen,"  cried  Beau-Pied; 
"  we  can't  hear  ourselves  be  killed." 

This  jest  revived  the  courage  of  the  Blues.  Instead 
of  fighting  only  at  one  point,  the  Republicans  spread 
themselves  to  three  diflterent  points  on  the  table-land 
of  La  Pelerine,  and  the  rattle  of  musketr}'  woke  all  the 
echoes  of  the  vallej^s,  hitherto  so  peaceful  beneath  it. 


The   Choiians.  41 

Victory  might  have  remained  doubtful  for  many  hours, 
or  the  fight  might  have  come  to  an  end  for  want  of 
combatants,  for  Blues  and  Chouans  were  equalty  brave 
and  obstinate.  Each  side  was  growing  more  and  more 
incensed,  when  the  sound  of  a  drum  in  the  distance  told 
that  a  body  of  men  must  be  crossing  the  valley  of 
Couesnon. 

"There's  the  National  Guard  of  Foug^res!"  cried 
Gudin,  in  a  loud  voice  ;  "my  man  has  brought  them." 

The  words  reached  the  ears  of  the  young  leader  of  the 
Chouans  and  his  ferocious  aide-de-camp,  and  the  royal- 
ists made  a  hasty  retrograde  movement,  checked,  how- 
ever, by  a  brutal  shout  from  Marche-a-Terre.  After 
two  or  three  orders  given  by  the  leader  in  a  low  voice, 
and  transmitted  by  Marche-a-Terre  in  the  Breton  dialect, 
the  Chouans  made  good  their  retreat  with  a  cleverness 
which  disconcerted  the  Republicans  and  even  the  com- 
mandant. At  the  first  word  of  command  they  formed 
in  line,  presenting  a  good  front,  behind  which  the 
wounded  retreated,  and  the  others  reloaded  their  guns. 
Then,  suddenly,  with  the  agility  already  shown  by 
Marche-k-Terre,  the  wounded  were  taken  over  the  brow 
of  the  eminence  to  the  right  of  the  road,  while  half 
the  others  followed  them  slowly  to  occupy  the  summit, 
where  nothing  could  be  seen  of  them  by  the  Blues  but 
their  bold  heads.  There  they  made  a  rampart  of  the 
trees  and  pointed  the  muzzles  of  their  guns  on  the  Re- 
publicans, who  were  rapidly  reformed  under  reiterated 
orders  from  Hulot  and  turned  to  face  the  remainder  of 
the  Chouans,  who  were  still  before  them  in  the  road. 
The  latter  retreated  slowly,  disputing  the  ground  and 
wheeling  so  as  to  bring  themselves  under  cover  of  their 
comrades'  fire.     When  they  reached  the  broad  ditch 


42  The   Chouans. 

which  bordered  the  road,  they  scaled  the  high  bank  on 
the  other  side,  braving  the  fire  of  the  Republicans, 
which  was  sufficiently  well-directed  to  fill  the  ditch  with 
dead  bodies.  The  Chouans  already  on  the  summit 
answered  with  a  fire  that  was  no  less  deadl}^  At  that 
moment  the  National  Guard  of  Fougeres  reached  the 
scene  of  action  at  a  quick  step,  and  its  mere  presence 
put  an  end  to  the  aflTair.  The  Guard  and  some  of  the 
soldiers  crossed  the  road  and  began  to  enter  the  woods, 
but  the  commandant  called  to  them  in  his  martial  voice, 
"  Do  you  want  to  be  annihilated  over  there?  " 

The  victory  remained  to  the  Republicans,  though  not 
without  heavy  loss.  All  the  battered  old  hats  were 
hung  on  the  points  of  the  bayonets  and  the  muskets 
held  aloft,  while  the  soldiers  shouted  with  one  voice: 
"Vive  la  Republique ! "  Even  the  wounded,  sitting 
by  the  roadside,  shared  in  the  general  enthusiasm ; 
and  Hulot,  pressing  Gerard's  hand,  exclaimed :  — 

"  Ha,  ha  !  those  are  what  I  call  veterans  !  " 

Merle  was  directed  to  bury  the  dead  in  a  ravine ; 
while  another  party  of  men  attended  to  the  removal  of 
the  wounded.  The  carts  and  horses  of  the  neighboring 
farmers  were  put  into  requisition,  and  the  suffering  men 
were  carefully  laid  on  the  clothing  of  the  dead.  Before 
the  little  column  started,  the  National  Guard  of  Fou- 
geres turned  over  to  Hulot  a  Chouan,  dangerously 
wounded,  whom  they  had  captured  at  the  foot  of  the 
slope  up  which  his  comrades  had  escaped,  and  where 
he  had  fallen  from  weakness. 

"Thanks  for  3'our  help,  citizens,"  said  the  com- 
mandant. "God's  thunder!  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
you,  we  should  have  had  a  pretty  bad  quarter  of  an 
hour.     Take  care  of  yourselves ;   the  war  has  begun. 


The   Chouans.  43 

Adieu,  friends."  Then,  turning  to  the  prisoner,  he 
asked,  "What's  the  name  of  your  general?" 

"  The  Gars." 

' '  Who  ?     Marche-a-Terre  ?  " 

"  No,  the  Gars." 

"  Where  does  the  Gars  come  from?  " 

To  this  question  the  prisoner,  whose  face  was  con- 
vulsed with  suffering,  made  no  reply ;  he  took  out  his 
beads  and  began  to  say  his  prayers. 

"  The  Gars  is  no  doubt  that  young  ci-devant  with  the 
black  cravat,  —  sent  b3^  the  tyrant  and  his  allies  Pitt 
and  Coburg.'^ 

At  these  words  the  Chouan  raised  his  head  proudly 
and  said  :  "  Sent  by  God  and  the  king  !  "  He  uttered 
the  words  with  an  energy  which  exhausted  his  strength. 
The  commandant  saw  the  difficulty  of  questioning  a 
dying  man,  whose  countenance  expressed  his  gloomy 
fanaticism,  and  he  turned  away  his  head  with  a  frown. 
Two  soldiers,  friends  of  those  whom  Marche-a-Terre 
had  so  brutally  killed  with  the  butt  of  his  whip,  stepped 
back  a  pace  or  two,  took  aim  at  the  Chouan,  whose 
fixed  eyes  did  not  blink  at  the  muzzles  of  their  guns, 
fired  at  short  range,  and  brought  him  down.  When 
they  approached  the  body  to  strip  it,  the  dying  man 
found  strength  to  cry  out  loudly,  "  Vive  le  roi !  " 

"Yes,  yes,  j^ou  canting  hypocrite,"  cried  Clef-des- 
Coeurs ;  ''  go  and  make  your  report  to  that  Virgin  of 
yours.  Did  n't  he  shout  in  our  faces,  '  Vive  le  roi !  ' 
when  we  thought  him  cooked  ?  " 

"  Here  are  his  papers,  commandant,"  said  Beau-Pied. 

"Ho!  ho!"  cried  Clef-des-Coeurs.  "Come,  all  of 
you,  and  see  this  minion  of  the  good  God  with  colors 
on  his  stomach  !  " 


44  The   Chouans. 

Hulot  and  several  soldiers  came  round  the  body,  now 
entirely  naked,  and  saw  upon  its  breast  a  blue  tattooing 
in  the  form  of  a  swollen  heart.  It  was  the  sign  of 
initiation  into  the  brotherhood  of  the  Sacred  Heart. 
Above  this  sign  were  the  words,  "  Marie  Lambrequin," 
no  doubt  the  man's  name. 

"Look  at  that,  Clef-des-Coeurs,"  said  Beau-Pied; 
"  it  would  take  3'ou  a  hundred  years  to  find  out  what 
that  accoutrement  is  good  for." 

"What  should  I  know  about  the  Pope's  uniform?" 
replied  Clef-des-Cceurs,  scornfull3^ 

"You  worthless  bog-trotter,  you'll  never  learn  any- 
thing," retorted  Beau-Pied.  "Don't  you  see  that 
they've  promised  that  poor  fool  that  he  shall  live  again, 
and  he  has  painted  his  gizzard  in  order  to  find  himself? " 

At  this  sally  —  which  was  not  without  some  founda- 
tion —  even  Hulot  joined  in  the  general  hilarity.  At 
this  moment  Merle  returned,  and  the  burial  of  the  dead 
being  completed  and  the  wounded  placed  more  or  less 
comfortably  in  two  carts,  the  rest  of  the  late  escort 
formed  in  two  lines  round  the  improvised  ambulances, 
and  descended  the  slope  of  the  mountain  towards 
Maine,  where  the  beautiful  valley  of  La  Pelerine,  a 
rival  to  that  of  Couesnon  lay  before  it. 

Hulot  with  his  two  officers  followed  the  troop  SI0WI3', 
hoping  to  get  safely  to  Ernee  where  the  wounded  could 
be  cared  for.  The  fight  we  have  just  described,  which 
was  almost  forgotten  in  the  midst  of  the  greater  events 
which  were  soon  to  occur,  was  called  by  the  name  of 
the  mountain  on  which  it  took  place.  It  obtained  some 
notice  at  the  West,  where  the  inhabitants,  observant  of 
this  second  uprising,  noticed  on  this  occasion  a  great 
change  in  the  manner  in  which  the  Chouans  now  made 


The   Chouans.  45 

war.  In  earlier  days  they  would  never  have  attacked 
so  large  a  detachment.  According  to  Hulot  the  young- 
royalist  whom  he  had  seen  was  undoubtedl}-  the  Gars, 
the  new  general  sent  to  Fj-ance  by  the  princes,  who, 
following  the  example  of  the  other  royalist  chiefs, 
concealed  his  real  name  and  title  under  one  of  those 
pseudonyms  called  "  noms  de  guerre."  This  circum- 
stance made  the  commandant  quite  as  uneas}'  after  his 
melancholy  victor}-  as  he  had  been  before  it  while  ex- 
pecting the  attack.  He  turned  several  times  to  con- 
sider the  table-land  of  La  Pelerine  which  he  was  leaving 
behind  him,  across  which  he  could  still  hear  faintly  at 
intervals  the  drums  of  the  National  Guard  descending 
into  the  valley  of  Couesnon  at  the  same  time  that  the 
Blues  were  descending  into  that  of  La  Pelerine. 

*'  Can  either  of  you,"  he  said  to  his  two  friends, 
"guess  the  motives  of  that  attack  of  the  Chouans? 
To  them,  fighting  is  a  matter  of  business,  and  I  can't 
see  what  they  expected  to  gain  by  this  attack.  They 
have  lost  at  least  a  hundred  men,  and  we  "  —  he  added, 
screwing  up  his  right  cheek  and  winking  b}^  way  of  a 
smile,  "  have  lost  only  sixty.  God's  thunder !  I  don't 
understand  that  sort  of  speculation.  The  scoundrels 
need  n't  have  attacked  us ;  we  might  just  as  well  have 
been  allowed  to  pass  like  letters  through  the  post  — 
No,  I  can't  see  what  good  it  has  done  them  to  bullet- 
hole  our  men,"  he  added,  with  a  sad  shake  of  his  head 
toward  the  carts.  "Perhaps  they  only  intended  to 
say  good-day  to  us." 

"  But  they  carried  off  our  recruits,  commander,"  said 
Merle. 

"The  recruits  could  have  skipped  like  frogs  into  the 
woods  at  any  time,  and  we  should  never  have  gone  after 


46  The   Chouans. 

them,  especiall}'  if  those  fellows  had  fired  a  single  vol- 
ley," returned  Hulot.  "No,  no,  there's  something 
behind  all  this."  Again  he  turned  and  looked  at  La 
Pelerine.     "  See  !  "  he  cried  ;  "  see  there  !  " 

Though  they  were  now  at  a  long  distance  from  the 
fatal  plateau,  they  could  easily  distinguish  Marche-a- 
Terre  and  several  Chouans  who  were  again  occupying  it. 

"Double-quick,  march!"  cried  Hulot  to  his  men, 
"open  your  compasses  and  trot  the  steeds  faster  than 
that !    Are  your  legs  frozen  ?  " 

These  words  drove  the  little  troop  into  rapid  motion. 

"There's  a  m3'stery,  and  it's  hard  to  make  out," 
continued  Hulot,  speaking  to  his  friends.  "  God  grant 
it  isn  't  explained  by  muskets  at  Ernee.  I  'm  ver}^ 
much  afraid  we  shall  find  the  road  to  Mayenne  cut  off 
by  the  king's  men." 

The  strategical  problem-  which  troubled  the  com- 
mandant was  causing  quite  as  much  uneasiness  to  the 
persons  whom  he  had  just  seen  on  the  summit  of  Mont 
Pelerine.  As  soon  as  the  drums  of  the  National  Guard 
were  out  of  hearing  and  Marche-a-Terre  had  seen  the 
Blues  at  the  foot  of  the  declivity,  he  gave  the  owl's  cry 
jo3^ously,  and  the  Chouans  reappeared,  but  their  num- 
bers were  less.  Some  were  no  doubt  busy  in  taking 
care  of  the  wounded  in  the  little  village  of  La  Pelerine, 
situated  on  the  side  of  the  mountain  which  looks  toward 
the  valley  of  Couesnon.  Two  or  three  chiefs  of  what 
were  called  the  "Chasseurs  duRoi"  clustered  about 
Marche-k-Terre.  A  few  feet  apart  sat  the  )'Oung  noble 
called  The  Gars,  on  a  granite  rock,  absorbed  in  thoughts 
excited  by  the  difficulties  of  his  enterprise,  which  now 
began  to  show  themselves.     Marche-a-Terre   screened 


The   Chouans.  47 

his  forehead  with  his  hand  from  the  rays  of  the  sun,  and 
looked  gloomily  at  the  road  by  which  the  Blues  were 
crossing  the  valley  of  La  Pelerine.  His  small  black 
ej-es  could  see  what  was  happening  on  the  hill-slopes 
on  the  other  side  of  the  vallej^ 

"The  Blues  will  intercept  the  messenger,"  said  the 
angry  voice  of  one  of  the  leaders  who  stood  near  him. 

"By  Saint,  Anne  of  Auray  ! "  exclaimed  another. 
"  Why  did  you  make  us  light?  Was  it  to  save  your 
own  skin  from  the  Blues  ?  " 

Marche-a-Terre  darted  a  venomous  look  at  his  ques- 
tioner and  struck  the  ground  with  his  heavy  carbine. 

"  Am  I  your  leader?  "  he  asked.  Then  after  a  pause 
he  added,  pointing  to  the  remains  of  Hulot's  detach- 
ment, ' '  If  you  had  all  fought  as  I  did  not  one  of  those 
Blues  would  have  escaped,  and  the  coach  could  have  got 
here  safely." 

" They'd  never  have  thought  of  escorting  it  or  hold- 
ing it  back  if  we  had  let  them  go  by  without  a  fight. 
No,  you  wanted  to  save  your  precious  skin  and  get  out 
of  their  hands —  He  has  bled  us  for  the  sake  of  his 
own  snout,"  continued  the  orator,  "and  made  us  lose 
twenty  thousand  francs  in  good  coin." 

"  Snout  yourself !  "  cried  Marche-a-Terre,  retreating 
three  steps  and  aiming  at  his  aggressor.  "It  isn't 
that  you  hate  the  Blues,  but  j^ou  love  the  gold.  Die 
without  confession  and  be  damned,  for  you  haven't 
taken  the   sacrament  for  a  year." 

This  insult  so  incensed  the  Chouan  that  he  turned 
pale  and  a  low  growl  came  from  his  chest  as  he  aimed 
in  turn  at  Marche-a-Terre.  The  young  chief  sprang 
between  them  and  struck  their  weapons  from  their 
hands   with   the   barrel  of  his  own  carbine ;    then  he 


48  TJie   Chouans, 

demanded  an  explanation  of  the  dispute,  for  the  con- 
versation had  been  carried  on  in  the  Breton  dialect,  an 
idiom  with  which  he  was  not  familiar. 

"Monsieur  le  marquis,"  said  Marche-a-Terre,  as  he 
ended  his  account  of  the  quarrel,  "it  is  all  the  more 
unreasonable  in  them  to  find  fault  with  me  because  I 
have  left  Pille-Miche  behind  me ;  he  '11  know  how  to 
save  the  coach  for  us." 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  the  young  man,  angril}-,  "  are 
you  waiting  here,  all  of  you,  to  pillage  that  coach  ?  — 
a  parcel  of  cowards  who  could  n't  win  a  victory  in  the 
first  fight  to  which  I  led  you !  But  why  should  you 
win  if  that's  your  object?  The  defenders  of  God  and 
the  king  are  thieves,  are  they?  By  Saint  Anne  of 
Auray !  I  'd  have  you  know,  we  are  making  war 
against  the  Republic,  and  not  robbing  travellers.  Those 
who  are  guilty  in  future  of  such  shameful  actions  shall 
not  receive  absolution,  nor  any  of  the  favors  reserved 
for  the  faithful  servants  of  the  king." 

A  murmur  came  from  the  group  of  Chouans,  and  it 
was  easy  to  see  that  the  authority  of  the  new  chief  was 
about  to  be  disputed.  The  young  man,  on  whom  this 
effect  of  his  words  was  by  no  means  lost,  was  thinking 
of  the  best  means  of  maintaining  the  dignity  of  the 
command,  when  the  trot  of  a  horse  was  heard  in  the 
vicinity.  All  heads  turned  in  the  direction  from  which 
the  sound  came.  A  lady  appeared,  sitting  astride  of  a 
little  Breton  horse,  which  she  put  at  a  gallop  as  soon  as 
she  saw  the  young  leader,  so  as  to  reach  the  group  of 
Chouans  as  quickly  as  possible. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked,  looking  first  at 
the  Chouans  and  then  at  their  chief. 

"  Could  you  believe  it,  madame?  they  are  waiting  to 


The   Chouans,  49 

rob  the  diligence  from  Mayenne  to  Fougeres  when  we 
have  just  had  a  skirmish,  in  order  to  release  the  con- 
scripts of  Fougeres,  which  has  cost  us  a  great  man}- 
men  without  defeating  the  Blues." 

"  Well,  where  *s  the  harm  of  that  ?  "  asked  the  young- 
lady,  to  whom  the  natural  shrewdness  of  a  woman  ex- 
plained the  whole  scene.  "You  have  lost  men,  but 
there 's  no  lack  of  others  ;  the  coach  is  bringing  gold, 
and  there's  always  a  lack  of  that.  We  bury  men,  who 
go  to  heaven,  and  we  take  money,  which  goes  into  the 
pockets  of  heroes.     I  don't  see  the  difficulty." 

The  Chouans  approved  of  her  speech  by  unanimous 
smiles. 

"Do  you  see  nothing  in  all  that  to  make  you  blush?" 
said  the  young  man,  in  a  low  voice.  "  Are  you  in  such 
need  of  money  that  you  must  pillage  on  the  high-road  ?  " 

"  I  am  so  eager  for  it,  marquis,  that  I  should  put  my 
heart  in  pawn  if  it  were  not  already  captured,"  she  said, 
smiling  coquettishly.  "Rut  where  did  you  get  the 
strange  idea  that  you  could  manage  Chouans  with- 
out letting  them  rob  a  few  Blues  here  and  there? 
Don't  you  know  the  saying,  '  Thieving  as  an  owl '  ?  — 
and  that's  a  Chouan.  Besides,"  she  said,  raising  her 
voice  to  be  heard  by  the  men,  "  it  is  just ;  haven't  the 
Blues  seized  the  property  of  the  Church,  and  our  own  ?  " 

Another  murmur,  very  different  from  the  growl  with 
which  the  Chouans  had  answered  their  leader,  greeted 
these  words.  The  young  man's  face  grew  darker ;  he 
took  the  young  lady  aside  and  said  in  the  annoyed  tone 
of  a  well-bred  man,  "Will  those  gentlemen  be  at  La 
Vivetiere  on  the  appointed  day  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  repUed,  "all  of  them,  the  Claimant, 
Grand- Jacques,  and  perhaps  Ferdinand." 


50  The   Chouans. 

"  Then  allow  me  to  return  there.  1  cannot  sanction 
such  robbery.  Yes,  madame,  I  call  it  robbery.  There 
may  be  honor  in  being  robbed,  but  —  " 
-  "Well,  well,"  she  said,  interrupting  him,  "then  I 
shall  have  your  share  of  the  booty,  and  I  am  much 
obliged  to  you  for  giving  it  up  to  me  ;  the  extra  sum  will 
be  extremely  useful,  for  my  mother  has  delayed  send- 
ing me  monej',  so  that  I  am  almost  destitute." 

"  Adieu  !  "  cried  the  marquis. 

He  turned  away,  but  the  lady  ran  after  him. 

"  Wh}^  won't  you  stay  with  me  ?  "  she  said,  giving  him 
the  look,  half-despotic,  half- caressing,  with  which  women 
who  have  a  right  to  a  man's  respect  let  him  know  their 
wishes. 

"  You  are  going  to  pillage  that  coach?  " 

"Pillage?  what  a  word ! '^  she  said.  "Let  me  ex- 
plain to  you  —  " 

"Explain  nothing,"  he  said  taking  her  hand  and 
kissing  it  with  the  superficial  gallantry  of  a  courtier. 
"  Listen  to  me,"  he  added  after  a  short  pause  :  "  if  I 
were  to  stay  here  while  they  capture  that  diligence  our 
people  would  kill  me,  for  I  should  certainly  —  " 

"  Not  kill  them,"  she  said  quickly,  "  for  they  would 
bind  your  hands,  with  all  the  respect  that  is  due  to  your 
rank ;  then,  having  levied  the  necessary  contribution 
for  their  equipment,  subsistence,  and  munitions  from 
our  enemies,  they  would  unbind  you  and  obey  you 
blindly." 

V  "And  you  wish  me  to  command  such  men  under 
such  circumstances?  If  my  life  is  necessary  to  the 
cause  which  I  defend  allow  me  at  any  rate  to  save  the 
honor  of  my  position.  If  I  withdraw  now  I  can  ignore 
this  base  act.     I  will  return,  in  order  to  escort  you." 


The  Chouans.  51 

So  saying,  he  rapidl}'  disappeared.  The  young  lady 
listened  to  his  receding  steps  with  evident  displeasure. 
When  the  sound  on  the  dried  leaves  ceased,  she  stood 
for  a  moment  as  if  confounded,  then  she  hastily  re- 
turned to  the  Chouans.  With  a  gesture  of  contempt 
she  said  to  Marche-a-Terre,  who  helped  her  to  dis- 
mount, "That  young  man  wants  to  make  regular 
war  on  the  Republic  !  Ah,  well !  he  '11  get  over  that 
in  a  few  days.  How  he  treated  me ! "  she  thought, 
presently. 

She  seated  herself  on  the  rock  where  the  marquis 
had  been  sitting,  and  silently  awaited  the  arrival  of  the 
coach.  It  was  one  of  the  phenomena  of  the  times,  and 
not  the  least  of  them,  that  this  young  and  noble  lady 
should  be  flung  by  violent  partisanship  into  the  struggle 
of  monarchies  against  the  spirit  of  the  age,  and  be 
driven  by  the  strength  of  her  feelings  into  actions  of 
which  it  may  almost  be  said  she  was  not  conscious. 
In  this  she  resembled  others  of  her  time  who  were 
led  away  by  an  enthusiasm  which  was  often  produc- 
tive of  noble  deeds.  Like  her,  many  women  played 
heroic  or  blameworthy  parts  in  the  fierce  struggle. 
The  royalist  cause  had  no  emissaries  so  devoted  and 
so  active  as  these  women ;  but  none  of  the  heroines  on 
that  side  paid  for  mistaken  devotion  or  for  actions  for- 
bidden to  their  sex,  with  a  greater  expiation  than  did  this 
lady  when,  seated  on  that  wayside  rock,  she  was  forced 
to  admire  the  young  leader's  noble  disdain  and  loyalty 
to  principle.  Insensibly  she  dropped  into  rever3\  Bit- 
ter memories  made  her  long  for  the  innocence  of  her 
early  years,  and  regret  that  she  had  escaped  being  a 
victim  of  the  Revolution  whose  victorious  march  could 
no  longer  be  arrested  by  feeble  hands. 


52  The  Chouans. 

The  coach,  which,  as  we  now  see,  had  much  to  do 
with  the  attack  of  the  Chouans,  had  started  from  the 
little  town  of  Ernee  a  few  moments  before  the  skirmish- 
ing began.     Nothing  pictures  a  region  so  well  as  the 
state  of  its  social  material.     From  this  point  of  view 
the  coach  deserves  a  mention.     The  Revolution  itself 
was  powerless  to  destroy  it ;  in  fact,  it  still  rolls  to  the 
present  day.     When  Turgot  bought  up  the  privileges 
of  a  company,  obtained  under  Louis  XIV.,  for  the  ex- 
clusive right  of  transporting  travellers  from  one  part  of 
the   kingdom  to  another,  and   instituted   the   lines   of 
coaches  called  the  "  turgotines,"  all  the  old  vehicles 
of  the  former  compan}^  flocked  into  the  provinces.     One 
of  these  shabby  coaches  was  now  plying  between  Ma- 
yenne  and   Fougeres.     A  few  objectors  called   it   the 
"  turgotine,-'  partly  to  mimic  Paris  and  partly  to  de- 
ride a  minister  who  attempted  innovations.     This  tur- 
gotine  was  a  wretched  cabriolet  on  two  high  wheels,  in 
the  depths  of  which  two  persons,  if  rather  fat,  could  with 
difficulty  have  stowed  themselves.    The  narrow  quarters 
of  this  rickety  machine  not  admitting  of  any  crowding, 
and  the  box  which  formed  the  seat  being  kept  exclu- 
sively for  the  postal  service,  the  travellers  who  had  any 
baggage  were  forced  to  keep  it  between  their  legs,  al- 
readj^  tortured  by  being  squeezed  into  a  sort  of  little 
box  in   shape  like  a  bellows.     The   original   color  of 
coach  and  running-gear  was  an  insoluble  enigma.     Two 
leather  curtains,  very  difficult  to  adjust  in  spite  of  their 
long  service,  were  supposed  to  protect  the  occupants 
from  cold  and  rain.    The  driver,  perched  on  a  plank  seat 
like  those   of  the  worst  Parisian  "  coucous,"   shared 
in  the  conversation  by  reason  of  his  position  between 
his  victims,  biped  and  quadruped.     The  equipage  pre- 


The  Chouans,  53 

sentecl  various  fantastic  resemblances  to  decrepit  old 
men  who  have  gone  through  a  goodly  number  of  ca- 
tarrhs a  ad  apoplexies  and  whom  death  respects  ;  it 
moaned  as  it  rolled,  and  squeaked  spasmodically.  Like 
a  traveller  overtaken  by  sleep,  it  rocked  alternately  for- 
ward and  back,  as  though  it  tried  to  resist  the  violent 
action  of  two  little  Breton  horses  which  dragged  it 
along  a  road  which  was  more  than  rough.  This  monu- 
ment of  a  past  era  contained  three  travellers,  who,  on 
leaving  Ernee,  where  they  had  changed  horses,  con- 
tinued a  conversation  begun  with  the  driver  before 
reaching  the  little  town. 

»  '^  What  makes  you  think  the  Chouans  are  here- 
abouts?" said  the  coachman.  "The  Ern^e  people 
tell  me  that  Commandant  Hulot  has  not  yet  started 
from  Fougeres." 

"  Ho,  ho,  friend  driver !  "  said  the  youngest  of  the 
travellers,  "you  risk  nothing  but  your  own  carcass! 
If  you  had  a  thousand  francs  about  3'ou,  as  I  have,  and 
were  known  to  be  a  good  patriot,  you  would  n't  take  it 
so  easy." 

"You  are  pretty  free  with  3^our  tongue,  any  way," 
said  the  driver,  shaking  his  head. 

"Count  your  lambs,  and  the  wolf  will  eat  them," 
remarked  another  of  the  travellers. 

This  man,  who  was  dressed  in  black,  seemed  to  be 
about  forty  years  old,  and  was,  probably,  the  rector  of 
some  parish  in  the  neighborhood.  His  chin  rested  on 
a  double  fold  of  flesh,  and  his  florid  complexion  indi- 
cated a  priest.  Though  short  and  fat,  he  displayed 
some  agility  when  required  to  get  in  or  out  of  the 
vehicle. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  both  Chouans  !  "  cried  the  man  of 


54  The   Chouans. 

the  thousand  francs,  whose  ample  goatskin,  covering 
trousers  of  good  cloth  and  a  clean  waistcoat,  bespoke  a 
rich  farmer.  "  By  the  soul  of  Saint  Robespierre !  I 
swear  j'ou  shall  be  roughl}^  handled." 

He  turned  his  gray  eyes  from  the  driver  to  his  fellow- 
travellers  and  showed  them  a  pistol  in  his  belt. 

"Bretons  are  not  afraid  of  that,"  said  the  rector, 
disdainfully.  "  Besides,  do  we  look  like  men  who 
want  your  money?" 

Every  time  the  word  "  money "  was  mentioned  the 
driver  was  silent,  and  the  rector  had  wit  enough  to 
doubt  whether  the  patriot  had  an}-  at  all,  and  to  suspect 
that  the  driver  was  carrying  a  good  deal. 

"  Are  you  well  laden,  Coupiau  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  no,  Monsieur  Gudin,"  replied  the  coachman. 
*'  I  'm  carrying  next  to  nothing." 

The  priest  watched  the  faces  of  the  patriot  and 
Coupiau  as  the  latter  made  this  answer,  and  both 
were   imperturbable. 

"  So  much  the  better  for  you."  remarked  the  patriot. 
"  I  can  now  take  measures  to  save  my  property  in  case 
of  danger." 

Such  despotic  assumption  nettled  Coupiau,  who  an- 
swered gruffl}^ :  "I  am  the  master  of  my  own  carriage, 
and  so  long  as  1  drive  you  —  " 

"  Are  you  a  patriot,  or  are  you  a  Chouan  ?  "  said  the 
other,  sharply  interrupting  him. 

"Neither  the  one  nor  the  other,"  replied  Coupiau. 
"I'm  a  postilion,  and,  what  is  more,  a  Breton, — 
consequently,   I  fear   neither   Blues   nor   nobles." 

"  Noble  thieves  !  "  cried  the  patriot,  ironically. 

"  They  only  take  back  what  was  stolen  from  them," 
said  the  rector,  vehemently. 


The   Chouans.  55 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  in  the  whites  of 
their  ej-es,  if  we  ma}^  use  a  phrase  so  colloquial. 
Sitting  back  in  the  vehicle  was  a  third  traveller  who 
took  no  part  in  the  discussion,  and  preserved  a  deep 
silence.  The  driver  and  tlie  patriot  and  even  Gudin 
paid  no  attention  to  this  mute  individual ;  he  was,  in 
truth,  one  of  those  uncomfortable,  unsocial  travellers 
who  are  found  sometimes  in  a  stage-coach,  like  a  patient 
calf  that  is  being  carried,  bound,  to  the  nearest  market. 
Such  travellers  begin  by  tilling  their  full  legal  space, 
and  end  by  sleeping,  without  the  smallest  respect  for 
their  fellow-beings,  on  a  neighbor's  shoulder.  The 
patriot,  Gudin,  and  the  driver  bad  let  him  alone, 
thinking  him  asleep,  after  discovering  that  it  was  use- 
less to  talk  to  a  man  whose  stolid  face  betrayed  an 
existence  spent  in  measuring  yards  of  linen,  and  an 
intellect  employed  in  selling  them  at  a  good  percentage 
above  cost.  This  fat  little  man,  doubled-up  in  his 
corner,  opened  his  porcelain-blue  eyes  ever}'  now  and 
then,  and  looked  at  each  speaker  with  a  sort  of  terror. 
He  appeared  to  be  afraid  of  his  fellow-travellers  and 
to  care  very  little  about  the  Chouans.  When  he  looked 
at  the  driver,  however,  the}'  seemed  to  be  a  pair  of  free- 
masons. Just  then  the  first  volley  of  musketry  was 
heard  on  La  Pelerine.  Coupiau,  frightened,  stopped 
the   coach. 

"  Oh  !  oh  !  "  said  the  priest,  as  if  he  had  some  means 
of  judging,  "  it  is  a  serious  engagement ;  there  are 
many   men." 

"The  trouble  for  us,  Monsieur  Gudin,"  cried  Cou- 
piau,   "  is   to  know   which   side    will    win." 

The  faces  of  all  became  unanimously  anxious. 

"Let  us  put  up  the  coach  at  that  inn  which  I  see 


56  The  Chouan8. 

over  there,"  said  the  patriot ;  '^  we  can  hide  it  till  we 
know  the  result  of  the  fight." 

The  advice  seemed  so  good  that  Coupiau  followed  it. 
The  patriot  helped  him  to  conceal  the  coach  behind  a 
wood-pile  ;  the  abbe  seized  the  occasion  to  pull  Coupiau 
aside  and  say  to  him,  in  a  low  voice :  "  Has  he  really 
any  mone}'?" 

"  He3^,  Monsieur  Gudin,  if  it  gets  into  the  pockets  of 
your  Reverence,  they  won't  be  weighed  down  with  it." 

When  the  Blues  marched  b}*,  after  the  encounter  on 
La  Pelerine,  the}'^  were  in  such  haste  to  reach  Ernee 
that  thej^  passed  the  little  inn  without  halting.  At  the 
sound  of  their  hast}^  march,  Gudin  and  the  innkeeper, 
stirred  by  curiosity,  went  to  the  gate  of  the  courtyard 
to  watch  them.  Suddenly,  the  fat  ecclesiastic  rushed  to 
a  soldier  who  was  lagging  in  the  rear. 

"Gudin!"  he  cried,  "you  wrong-headed  fellow, 
have  you  joined  the  Blues?  My  lad,  3'ou  are  surely 
not  in   earnest?" 

*'  Yes,  uncle,"  answered  the  corporal.  "  I  've  sworn 
to  defend  France." 

"Unhappy  boy!  you'll  lose  your  soul,"  said  the 
uncle,  trying  to  rouse  his  nephew  to  the  religious 
sentiments  which  are  so  powerful  in  the  Breton  breast. 

"Uncle,"  said  the  young  man,  ''if  the  king  had 
placed  himself  at  the  head  of  his  armies,  I  don't  sa}- 
but  what  —  " 

"Fool!  who  is  talking  to  j^ou  about  the  king? 
Does  your  republic  give  abbeys?  No,  it  has  upset 
everything.  How  do  you  expect  to  get  on  in  life  ? 
Stay  with  us  ;  sooner  or  later  we  shall  triumph  and 
you'll   be   counsellor  to   some   parliament." 

*'  Parliaments ! "  said  young  Gudin,  in  a  mocking 
tone.     "  Good-by,  uncle." 


The   Chouans.  57 

"  You  sha'n't  have  a  penny  at  my  death,"  cried  his 
uncle,  in  a  rage.     ''I'll  disinherit  you." 

"Thank  you,  uncle,"  said  the  Republican,  as  they 
parted. 

The  fumes  of  the  cider  which  the  patriot  copiously 
bestowed  on  Coupiau  during  the  passage  of  the  little 
troop  had  somewhat  dimmed  the  driver's  perceptions, 
but  he  roused  himself  joyously  when  the  innkeeper, 
having  questioned  the  soldiers,  came  back  to  the  inn 
and  announced  that  the  Blues  were  victorious.  He 
at  once  brought  out  the  coach  and  before  long  it  was 
wending  its  way  across  the  valley. 

When  the  Blues  reached  an  acclivity  on  the  road 
from  which  the  plateau  of  La  Pelerine  could  again  be 
seen  in  the  distance,  Hulot  turned  round  to  discover 
if  the  Chouans  were  still  occupying  it,  and  the  sun, 
glinting  on  the  muzzles  of  the  guns,  showed  them  to  him, 
each  like  a  dazzling  spot.  Giving  a  last  glance  to  the 
valle}"  of  La  Pelerine  before  turning  into  that  of  Ern^e, 
he  thought  he  saw  Coupiau's  vehicle  on  the  road  he 
had  just  traversed. 

"  Is  n't  that  the  Mayenne  coach  ?^^  he  said  to  his  two 
officers. 

They  looked  at  the  venerable  turgotine,  and  easily 
recognized  it. 

"But,"  said  Hulot,  '-how  did  we  fail  to  meet  it?" 

Merle  and  Gerard  looked  at  each  other  in  silence. 

"Another  enigma!"  cried  the  commandant.  "But 
I  begin  to  see  the  meaning  of  it  all." 

At  the  same  moment  Marche-a-Terre,  who  also  knew 
the  turgotine,  called  his  comrades'  attention  to  it,  and 
the  general  shout  of  joy  which  they  sent  up  roused  the 
young  lady  from  her  reflections.     She  advanced  a  little 


58  The   Chouans. 

distance  and  saw  the  coach,  which  was  beginning  the 
ascent  of  La  Pelerine  with  fatal  rapidity.  The  luckless 
vehicle  soon  reached  the  plateau.  The  Chouans,  who 
had  meantime  hidden  themselves,  swooped  on  their 
pre}^  with  hungry  celerity.  The  silent  traveller  slipped 
to  the  floor  of  the  carriage,  bundling  himself  up  into 
the  semblance  of  a  bale. 

"  Well  done  !  "  cried  Coupiau  from  his  wooden  perch, 
pointing  to  the  man  in  the  goatskin;  "you  must 
have  scented  this  patriot  who  has  lots  of  gold  in  his 
pouch  —  " 

The  Chouans  greeted  these  words  with  roars  of 
laughter,  crying  out :  "  Pille-Miche  !  hey,  Pille-Miche  ! 
Pille-Miche ! " 

Amid  the  laughter,  to  which  Pille-Miche  responded 
like  an  echo,  Coupiau  came  down  from  his  seat  quite 
crestfallen.  When  the  famous  Cibot,  otherwise  called 
Pille-Miche,  helped  his  neighbor  to  get  out  of  the 
coach,  a  respectful  murmur  was  heard  among  the 
Chouans. 

'*  It  is  the  Abbe  Gudin  !  "  cried  several  voices.  At 
this  respected  name  ever}^  hat  was  off,  and  the  men 
knelt  down  before  the  priest  as  they  asked  his 
blessing,    which   he   gave   solemnly. 

"  Pille-Miche  here  could  trick  Saint  Peter  and  steal 
the  keys  of  Paradise,"  said  the  rector,  slapping  that 
worthy  on  the  shoulder.  "  If  it  had  n't  been  for  him, 
the  Blues  would  have  intercepted  us." 

Then,  noticing  the  lady,  the  abb^  went  to  speak  to 
her  apart.  Marche-a-Terre,  who  had  meantime  briskly 
opened  the  boot  of  the  cabriolet,  held  up  to  his  com- 
panions, with  savage  jo}^,  a  bag,  the  shape  of  which 
betrayed  its  contents  to  be  rolls  of  coin.     It  did  not 


The   Chouans.  59 

take  long  to  divide  the  boot}'.  Each  Chouan  received 
his  share,  so  carefully  apportioned  that  the  division  was 
made  without  the  slightest  dispute.  Then  Marche-a- 
Terre  went  to  the  lady  and  the  priest,  and  offered  them 
each  about  six  thousand  francs. 

"  Can  I  conscientiously  accept  this  money,  Monsieur 
Gudin?"  said  the  lady,  feeling  a  need  of  justification. 

"Why  not,  madame?  In  former  days  the  Church 
approved  of  the  confiscation  of  the  property  of  Prot- 
estants, and  there's  far  more  reason  for  confiscating 
that  of  these  revolutionists,  who  deny  God,  destroy 
chapels,    and   persecute   religion." 

The  abbe  then  joined  example  to  precept  by  accept- 
ing, without  the  slightest  scruple,  the  novel  sort  of 
tithe  which  Marche-a-Terre  offered  to  him.  "Besides," 
he  added,  "  I  can  now  devote  all  I  possess  to  the 
service  of  God  and  the  king ;  for  m}-  nephew  has 
joined  the  Blues,   and   I   disinherit  him." 

Coupiau  was  bemoaning  himself  and  declaring  that 
he  was  ruined. 

"Join  us,"  said  Marche-a-Terre,  "  and  3'ou  shall 
have  3'our  share." 

"  They  '11  say  I  let  the  coach  be  robbed  on  purpose 
if  I  return  without  signs  of  violence." 

"  Oh,  is  that  all?  "  exclaimed  Marche-a-Terre. 

He  gave  a  signal  and  a  shower  of  bullets  riddled  the 
turgotine.  At  this  unexpected  volley  the  old  vehicle 
gave  forth  such  a  lamentable  ciy  that  the  Chouans, 
superstitious  by  nature,  recoiled  in  terror  ;  but  Marche- 
a-Terre  caught  sight  of  the  pallid  face  of  the  silent 
traveller  rising  from  the  floor  of  the  coach. 

"  You  've  got  another  fowl  in  your  coop,"  he  said  in 
a  low  voice  to  Coupiau. 


60  The   Chouans. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  driver ;  "  but  I  make  it  a  condition 
of  my  joining  you  that  I  be  allowed  to  take  that  worthy 
man  safe  and  sound  to  Fougeres.  I  'm  pledged  to  it  in 
the  name  of  Saint  Anne  of  Auray." 

"  Who  is  he?"  asked  Pille-Miche. 

"  That  I  can't  tell  you,"  replied  Coupiau. 

"  Let  him  alone ! ''  said  Marche-a-Terre,  shoving 
Pille-Miche  with  his  elbow;  "he  has  vowed  by  Saint 
Anne  of  Auray,  and  he  must  keep  his  word." 

"Very  good,"  said  Pille-Miche,  addressing  Coupiau; 
"  but  mind  3"ou  don't  go  down  the  mountain  too  fast ; 
we  shall  overtake  you,  —  a  good  reason  wh}' ;  I  want 
to  see  the  cut  of  your  traveller,  and  give  him  his 
passport." 

Just  then  the  gallop  of  a  horse  coming  rapidly  up  the 
slopes  of  La  Pelerine  was  heard,  and  the  3'oung  chief 
presently  reappeared.  The  lady  hastened  to  conceal 
the  bag  of  plunder  which  she  held  in  her  hand. 

"  You  can  keep  that  money  without  an}^  scruple," 
said  the  young  man,  touching  the  arm  which  the  lad}^ 
had  put  behind  her.  ' '  Here  is  a  letter  for  3'ou  which 
I  have  just  found  among  mine  which  were  waiting  for 
me  at  La  Vivetiere ;  it  is  from  your  mother."  Then, 
looking  at  the  Chouans  who  were  disappearing  into  the 
woods,  and  at  the  turgotine  which  was  now  on  its  way 
to  the  valley  of  Couesnon,  he  added:  "After  all  my 
haste  I  see  I  am  too  late.  God  grant  I  am  deceived  in 
ray  suspicions !  " 

* '  It  was  my  poor  mother's  money  !  "  cried  the  lad}', 
after  opening  her  letter,  the  first  lines  of  which  drew 
forth  her  exclamation. 

A  smothered  laugh  came  from  the  woods,  and  the 
young  man  himself  could  not  help  smiling  as  he  saw 


The  Chouans.  61 

the  lady  holding  in  her  hand  the  bag  containing  her 
share  in  the  pillage  of  her  own  money.  She  herself 
began  to  laugh. 

"  Well,  well,  marquis,  God  be  praised!  this  time,  at 
least,  you  can't  blame  me,"  she  said,  smiling. 

"  Levity  in  everything !  even  your  remorse  !  "  said 
the  young  man. 

She  colored  and  looked  at  the  marquis  with  so 
genuine  a  contrition  that  he  was  softened.  The  abbe 
politely  returned  to  her,  with  an  equivocal  manner,  the 
sum  he  had  received ;  then  lie  followed  the  3'oung 
leader  who  took  the  by-way  through  which  he  had 
come.  Before  following  them  the  lad}'  made  a  sign  to 
Marche-a-Terre,  who  came  to  her. 

"  Advance  towards  Mortagne,"  she  said  to  him  in  a 
low  voice.  ' '  I  know  that  the  Blues  are  constantly 
sending  large  sums  of  money  in  coin  to  Alenqon  to  pay 
for  their  supplies  of  war.  If  I  allow  you  and  your 
comrades  to  keep  what  you  captured  to-day  it  is  only 
on  condition  that  you  repay  it  later.  But  be  careful 
that  the  Gars  knows  nothing  of  the  object  of  the 
expedition ;  he  would  certainly  oppose  it ;  in  case  of 
Ill-luck,  I  will  pacify  him." 

"  Madame,"  said  the  marquis,  after  she  had  rejoined 
him  and  had  mounted  his  horse  en  croupe,  giving  her 
own  to  the  abbe,  "  my  friends  in  Paris  write  me  to  be 
very  careful  of  what  we  do ;  the  Republic,  they  say,  is 
preparing  to  fight  us  with  spies  and  treachery." 

"It  wouldn't  be  a  bad  plan,"  she  replied;  "they 
have  clever  ideas,  those  fellows.  I  could  take  part  in 
that  sort  of  war  and  find  foes." 

"  I  don't  doubt  it !  "  cried  the  marquis.  "  Pichegru 
advises  me  to  be  cautious  and  watchful  in  my  friend- 


62  The  Chouans. 

ships  and  relations  of  every  kind.  The  Republic  does 
me  the  honor  to  think  me  more  dangerous  than  all  the 
Vendeans  put  together,  and  counts  on  certain  of  my 
weaknesses  to  lay  hands  upon  me." 

^'  Surely  you  will  not  distrust  me?"  she  said, striking 
his  heart  with  the  hand  b^-  which  she  held  to  him. 

"Arej'Ou  a  traitor,  madame?"  he  said,  bending 
towards  her  his  forehead,  which  she  kissed. 

"  In  that  case,"  said  the  abbe,  referring  to  the  news, 
"Fouche's  police  will  be  more  dangerous  for  us  than 
their  battalions  of  recruits  and  counter-Chouans." 

"  Yes,  true  enough,  father,"  replied  the  marquis. 

"  Ah  !  ah  !  "  cried  the  lady.  "  Fouche  means  to  send 
women  against  you,  does  he?  I  shall  be  read}^  for 
them,"  she  added  in  a  deeper  tone  of  voice  and  after 
a  slight  pause. 

At  a  distance  of  three  or  four  gunshots  from  the 
plateau,  now  abandoned,  a  little  scene  was  taking 
place  which  was  not  uncommon  in  those  days  on  the 
high-roads.  After  leaving  the  little  village  of  La  Pe- 
lerine, Pille-Miche  and  Marche-a-Terre  again  stopped 
the  turgotine  at  a  dip  in  the  road.  Coupiau  got  off  his 
seat  after  making  a  faint  resistance.  The  silent  trav- 
eller, extracted  from  his  hiding-place  by  the  two  Chou- 
ans, found  himself  on  his  knees  in  a  furze  bush. 

"Who  are  you?"  asked  Marche-a-Terre  in  a  threat- 
ening voice. 

The  traveller  kept  silence  till  Pille-Miche  put  the 
question  again  and  enforced  it  with  the  butt  end  of  his 
gun. 

"  I  am  Jacques  Pinaud,"  he  replied,  with  a  glance  at 
Coupiau  ;  "  a  poor  linen-draper." 


The  Chouans.  63 

Coupiau  made  a  sign  in  the  negative,  not  consider- 
ing it  an  infraction  of  liis  promise  to  Saint  Anne.  Tlie 
sign  enlightened  Pille-Miche,  who  took  aim  at  the  kick- 
less  traveller,  while  Marche-a-Terre  laid  before  him 
categoricallj^  a  terrible  ultimatum. 

' '  You  are  too  fat  to  be  poor.  If  you  make  me  ask 
you  3'our  name  again,  here 's  my  friend  Pille-Miche, 
who  will  obtain  the  gratitude  and  good-will  of  your 
heirs  in  a  second.  Who  are  you?"  he  added,  after  a 
pause. 

*'  I  am  d'Orgemont,  of  Fougeres." 

"Ah  !  ah !  "  cried  the  two  Cliouans. 

"I  didn't  tell  3'our  name,  Monsieur  d'Orgemont," 
said  Coupiau.  "The  Holy  Virgin  is  my  witness  that 
1  did  my  best  to  protect  you." 

"Inasmuch  as  you  are  Monsieur  d'Orgemont,  of 
Fougeres,"  said  Marche-a-Terre,  with  an  air  of  ironical 
respect,  ''we  shall  let  you  go  in  peace.  Only,  as  you 
are  neither  a  good  Chouan  nor  a  true  Blue  (though  it 
was  you  who  bought  the  properly  of  the  Abbey  de 
Juvigny),  you  will  pay  us  three  hundred  crowns  of  six 
francs  each  for  your  ransom.  Neutrality  is  worth  that, 
at  least." 

"Three  hundred  crowns  of  six  francs  each!"  cho- 
russed  the  luckless  banker,  Pille-Miche,  and  Coupiau, 
m  three  different  tones. 

"  Alas,  my  good  friend,"  continued  d'Orgemont,  "  I  'm 
a  ruined  man.  The  last  forced  loan  of  that  devilish 
Republic  for  a  hundred  millions  sucked  me  dry,  taxed 
as  I  was  alread}'." 

"  How  much  did  your  Republic  get  out  of  3'ou?  " 

"A  thousand  crowns,  my  dear  man,"  replied  the 
banker,  with  a  piteous  air,  hoping  for  a  reduction. 


64  The  Chouans, 

"If  your  Republic  gets  forced  loans  out  of  you  for 
such  big  sums  as  that  you  must  see  that  yon  would  do 
better  with  us  ;  our  government  would  cost  you  less. 
Three  hundred  crowns,  do  you  call  that  dear  for  jouv 
skin?'' 

"  Where  am  I  to  get  them?  " 

"Out  of  your  strong-box,"  said  Pille-Miche ;  "and 
mind  that  the  money  is  forthcoming,  or  we  '11  singe  3'Ou 
still/' 

"  How  am  I  to  pay  it  to  you?"  asked  d'Orgemont. 

"  Your  country-house  at  Fougeres  is  not  far  from 
Gibarr3''s  farm  where  my  cousin  Galope-Chopine,  other- 
wise called  Cibot,  lives.  You  can  pay  the  money  to 
him,"  said  Pille-Miche. 

"  That's  not  business-like,"  said  d'Orgemont. 

"  What  do  we  care  for  that?  "  said  Marche-a  Terre. 
"  But  mind  you  remember  that  if  that  monej'  is  not 
paid  to  Galope-Chopine  within  two  weeks  we  shall  pay 
you  a  little  visit  which  will  cure  your  gout.  As  for 
you,  Coupiau,"  added  Marche-a-Terre,  "jour  name  in 
future  is  to  be  Mene-a-Bien." 

So  saying,  the  two  Chouans  departed.  The  traveller 
returned  to  the  vehicle,  which,  thanks  to  Coupiau's 
whip,  now  made  rapid  progress  to  Fougeres. 

^^If  j^ou'd  only  been  armed,"  said  Coupiau,  "we 
might  have  made  some  defence." 

"Idiot!"  cried  d'Orgemont,  pointing  to  his  heavy 
shoes.  "I  have  ten  thousand  francs  in  those  soles; 
do  you  think  I  would  be  such  a  fool  as  to  fight  with 
that  sum  about  me  ?  " 

Mene-a-Bien  scratched  his  ear  and  looked  behind  him, 
but  his  new  comrades  were  out  of  sight. 

Hulot   and   his   command    stopped   at    Ernee   long 


The   Chouans.  65 

enough  to  place  the  wounded  in  the  hospital  of  the 
little  town,  and  then,  without  further  hindrance,  they 
reached  Mayenne.  There  the  commandant  cleared  up 
his  doubts  as  to  the  action  of  the  Chouans,  for  on  the 
following  day  the  news  of  the  pillage  of  the  turgotine 
was  received. 

A  few  days  later  the  government  despatched  to  Ma- 
yenne  so  strong  a  force  of  "patriot  conscripts,"  that 
Hulot  was  able  to  fill  the  ranks  of  his  brigade.  Dis- 
quieting rumors  began  to  circulate  about  the  insurrec- 
tion. A  rising  had  taken  place  at  all  the  points  where, 
during  the  late  war,  the  Chouans  and  Bretons  had 
made  their  chief  centres  of  insurrection.  The  little 
town  of  Saint-James,  between  Pontorson  and  Fougeres 
was  occupied  by  them,  apparently  for  the  purpose  of 
making  it  for  the  time  being  a  headquarters  of  opera- 
tions and  supplies.  From  there  they  were  able  to  com 
municate  with  Normandy  and  the  Morbihan  without 
risk.  Their  subaltern  leaders  roamed  the  three  prov- 
inces, roused  all  the  partisans  of  monarchy,  and  gave 
consistence  and  unity  to  their  plans.  These  proceed- 
ings coincided  with  what  was  going  on  in  La  Vendee, 
where  the  same  intrigues,  under  the  influence  of  four 
famous  leaders  (the  Abbe  Vernal,  the  Comte  de  Fon/ 
taine,  De  Chatillon,  and  Suzannet),  were  agitating  the 
country.  The  Chevalier  de  Valois,  the  Marquis  d'Es- 
grignon,  and  the  Troisvilles  were,  it  was  said,  corre- 
sponding with  these  leaders  in  the  department  of  the 
Orne.  The  chief  of  the  great  plan  of  operations  which 
was  thus  developing  slowly  but  in  formidable  propor- 
tions was  really  "  the  Gars,"  —  a  name  given  by  the 
Chouans  to  the  Marquis  de  Montauran  on  his  arrival 
from  England.     The  information  sent  to  Hulot  by  the 

5 


66  The   Chouans. 

War  department  proved  correct  in  all  particulars.  The 
marquis  gained  after  a  time  sufficient  ascendencj^  over 
the  Chouans  to  make  them  understand  the  true  object  of 
the  war,  and  to  persuade  them  that  the  excesses  of  which 
they  were  guilt}'  brought  disgrace  upon  the  cause  thej- 
had  adopted.  The  daring  nature,  the  nerve,  coolness, 
and  capacity  of  this  young  nobleman  awakened  the 
hopes  of  all  the  enemies  of  the  Republic,  and  suited  so 
thoroughly  the  grave  and  even  solemn  enthusiasm  of 
those  regions  that  even  the  least  zealous  partisans  of 
the  king  did  their  part  in  preparing  a  decisive  blow  in 
behalf  of  the  defeated  monarchj'. 

Hulot  received  no  answer  to  the  questions  and  the 
frequent  reports  which  he  addressed  to  the  government 
in  Paris. 
f  But  the  news  of  the  almost  magical  return  of  General 
I  Bonaparte  and  the  events  of  the  18th  Brnmaire  were 
^  soon  current  in  the  air.  The  militar}^  commanders  of 
1^  the  West  understood  then  the  silence  of  the  ministers. 
Nevertheless,  they  were  only  the  more  impatient  to 
be  released  from  the  responsibility  that  weighed  upon 
them  ;  and  they  were  in  ever}'  way  desirous  of  knowing 
what  measures  the  new  government  was  likely  to  take. 
When  it  was  known  to  these  soldiers  that  General 
Bonaparte  was  appointed  First  Consul  of  the  Republic 
their  jo}^  was  great ;  they  saw,  for  the  first  time,  one 
of  their  own  profession  called  to  the  management  of 
the  nation.  France,  which  had  made  an  idol  of  this 
young  hero,  quivered  with  hope.  The  vigor  and  energy 
of  the  nation  revived.  Paris,  weary  of  its  long  gloom, 
gave  itself  up  to  fetes  and  pleasures  of  which  it  had 
been  so  long  deprived.  The  first  acts  of  the  Consulate 
did  not  diminish  any  hopes,  and  Liberty  felt  no  alarm. 


The   Ohouans.  67 

The  F'irst  Consul  issued  a  proclamation  to  the  inhabi- 
tants of  the  West.  The  eloquent  allocutions  addressed 
to  the  masses  which  Bonaparte  had,  as  it  were,  in- 
vented, produced  effects  in  those  da3's  of  patriotism 
and  miracle  that  were  absolutely  startling.  His  voice 
echoed  through  the  world  like  the  voice  of  a  prophet, 
for  none  of  his  proclamations  had,  as  yet,  been  belied 
by  defeat. 

Inhabitants  : 

An  impious  war  again  inflames  the  West. 

The  makers  of  these  troubles  are  traitors  sold  to  the 
English,  or  brigands  who  seek  in  civil  war  opportunity 
and  license  for  misdeeds. 

To  such  men  the  government  owes  no  forbearance, 
nor  any  declaration  of  its  principles. 

But  there  are  citizens,  dear  to  France,  who  have  been 
misled  by  their  wiles.  It  is  to  such  that  truth  and  light 
are  due. 

Unjust  laws  have  been  promulgated  and  executed ; 
arbitrary  acts  have  threatened  the  safety  of  citizens 
and  the  liberty  of  consciences  ;  mistaken  entries  on  the 
list  of  emigres  imperil  citizens;  the  great  principles  of 
social  order  have  been  violated. 

The  Consuls  declare  that  liberty  of  worship  having 
been  guaranteed  by  the  Constitution,  the  law  of  11 
Prairial,  year  III.,  which  gives  the  use  of  edifices 
built  for  religious  worship  to  all  citizens,  shall  be 
executed. 

The  government  will  pardon  ;  it  will  be  merciful  to 
repentance  ;  its  mercy  will  be  complete  and  absolute ; 
but  it  will  punish  whosoever,  after  this  declaration, 
shall   dare   to   resist   the   national   sovereignty. 


68  The   Chouans. 

"  Well,"  said  Hulot,  after  the  public  reading  of  this 
Consular  manifesto,  "Isn't  that  paternal  enough? 
But  3'ou  '11  see  that  not  a  single  roj'alist  brigand  will 
be  changed  by  it." 

The  commandant  was  right.  The  proclamation 
mereh'  served  to  strengthen  each  side  in  their  own 
convictions.  A  few  da3's  later  Hulot  and  his  col- 
leagues received  reinforcements.  The  new  minister  of 
war  notified  them  that  General  Brune  was  appointed 
to  command  the  troops  in  the  west  of  France.  Hulot, 
whose  experience  was  known  to  the  government,  had 
provisional  control  in  the  departments  of  the  Orne  and 
Mayenne.  An  unusual  activit}'  began  to  show  itself 
in  the  government  offices.  Circulars  from  the  minister 
of  war  and  the  minister  of  police  gave  notice  that 
vigorous  measures  entrusted  to  the  military  command- 
ers would  be  taken  to  stifle  the  insurrection  at  its  birth. 
But  the  Chouans  and  the  Vendeans  had  profited  b}^ 
the  inaction  of  the  Directory  to  rouse  the  whole  region 
and  virtually  take  possession  of  it.  A  new  Consular 
proclamation  was  therefore  issued.  This  time,  it  was 
the  general  speaking  to  his  troops :  — 

Soldiers  : 

There  are  none  but  brigands,  emigres,  and  hirelings 
of  England  now  remaining  in  the  West. 

The  army  is  composed  of  more  than  fifty  thousand 
brave  men.  Let  me  speedih'  hear  from  them  that  the 
rebel  chiefs  have  ceased  to  live.  Glory  is  won  by  toil 
alone ;  if  it  could  be  had  by  living  in  barracks  in  a 
town,  all  would  have  it. 

Soldiers,  whatever  be  the  rank  you  hold  in  the  army, 
the  gratitude  of  the  nation  awaits  you.     To  be  worthy 


The  Chouans.  69 

of  it,  you  must  brave  the  inclemencies  of  weather, 
ice,  snow,  and  the  excessive  coldness  of  the  nights  ; 
3'ou  must  surprise  your  enemies  at  daybreak,  and 
exterminate  those  wretches,  the  disgrace  of  France. 

Make  a  short  and  sure  campaign  ;  be  inexorable  to 
tliose  brigands,  and  maintain  strict  discipline. 

National  Guards,  join  the  strength  of  your  arms  to 
that  of  the  line. 

If  you  know  among  you  anv  men  who  fraternize  with 
the  brigands,  arrest  them.  Let  them  find  no  refuge  ; 
pursue  them  •,  if  traitors  dare  to  harbor  and  defend 
tliem,  let  them  perish  together. 

"  What  a  man  !  '*  cried  Hulot.  "  It  is  just  as  it  was 
in  the  army  of  Italy  —  he  rings  in  the  mass,  and  he 
says  it  himself.     Don't  you  call  that  talking,  he}'  ?  " 

"Yes,  but  he  speaks  by  himself  and  m  his  own 
name,"  said  Gerard,  who  began  to  feel  alarmed  at 
the    possible   results   of  the    18th   Brumaire. 

"And  Where's  the  harm,  since  he's  a  soldier?"  said 
Merle. 

A  group  of  soldiers  were  clustered  at  a  little  distance 
before  the  same  proclamation  posted  on  a  wall.  As 
none  of  them  could  read,  they  gazed  at  it,  some  with 
a  careless  eye,  others  with  curiosity,  while  two  or  three 
hunted  about  for  a  citizen  who  looked  learned  enough 
to  read  it  to  them. 

"Now  you  tell  us,  Clef-des-Coeurs,  what  that  rag  of 
a  paper  says,"  cried  Beau-Pied,  in  a  saucy  tone  to  his 
comrade. 

"Easy  to  guess,"   replied  Clef-des-Coeurs. 

At  these  words  the  other  men  clustered  round  the 
pair,  who  were  always  ready  to  play  their  parts. 


70  The   Choumis. 

"Look  there,"  continued  Clef-des-Coeurs,  pointing  to 
a  coarse  woodcut  which  headed  the  proclamation  and 
represented  a  pair  of  compasses,  —  which  had  lately 
superseded  the  level  of  1793.  "It  means  that  the 
troops  —  that 's  us  —  are  to  march  firm  ;  don't  you 
see  the  compasses  are  open,  both  legs  apart?  —  that's 
an  emblem." 

"So  much  for  your  learning,  my  lad;  it  isn't  an 
emblem  —  it's  called  a  problem.  I've  served  in  the 
artillery,"  continued  Beau-Pied,  "and  problems  were 
meat   and   drink  to   my   officers." 

"  I  say  it 's  an  emblem." 

"  It 's  a  problem  " 

"What  will  you  bet?" 

"Anything." 

"  Your  German  pipe  ?  " 

"  Done ! " 

"  By  your  leave,  adjutant,  is  n't  that  thing  an  emblem, 
and  not  a  problem?"  said  Clef-des-Coeurs,  following 
Gerard,  who  was  thoughtfully  walking  away. 

"  It  is  both,"  he  replied,  gravely. 

"The  adjutant  was  making  fun  of  you,"  said  Beau- 
Pied.  "That  paper  means  that  our  general  in  Italy  is 
promoted  Consul,  which  is  a  fine  grade,  and  we  are  to 
get  shoes  and  overcoats." 


The  Ohouans,  71 


n. 

ONE   OF   FOUCHIil'S   IDEAS. 

One  morning  towards  the  end  of  Brumaire  just  as 
Hulot  was  exercising  his  brigade,  now  b}'  order  of  his 
superiors  wholly  concentrated  at  Maj-enne,  a  courier 
arrived  from  Alenqon  with  despatches,  at  the  reading 
of  which  his  face  betrayed  extreme  annoyance. 

"  Forward,  then  !  "  he  cried  in  an  angry  tone,  stick- 
ing the  papers  into  the  crown  of  his  hat.  "  Two 
companies  will  march  with  me  towards  Mortagne.  The 
Chouans  are  there.  You  will  accompany  me,"  he  said 
to  Merle  and  Gerard.  ''May  I  be  created  a  nobleman 
if  I  can  understand  one  word  of  that  despatch.  Perhaps 
I  'm  a  fool !  well,  anyhow,  forward,  march !  there  's  no 
time  to  lose." 

"  Commandant,  by  your  leave,"  said  Merle,  kicking 
the  cover  of  the  ministerial  despatch  vyrith  the  toe  of 
his  boot,  "what  is  there  so  exasperating  in  that?" 

''  God's  thunder !  nothing  at  all  —  except  that  we 
are  fooled." 

When  the  commandant  gave  vent  to  this  military 
oath  (an  object  it  must  be  said  of  Republican  atheistical 
remonstrance)  it  gave  warning  of  a  storm  ;  the  diverse 
intonations  of  the  words  were  degrees  of  a  thermometer 
by  which  the  brigade  could  judge  of  the  patience  of  its 
commander ;  the  old  soldier's  frankness  of  nature  had 


72  The   Chouam. 

made  this  knowledge  so  easy  that  the  veriest  little 
drummer-bo}'  knew  his  Hulot  b}'  heart,  simplj-  b}'  ob- 
serving the  variations  of  the  grimace  with  which  the 
commander  screwed  up  his  cheek  and  snapped  his 
e^-es  and  vented  his  oath.  On  this  occasion  the  tone 
of  smothered  rage  with  which  he  uttered  the  words 
made  his  two  friends  silent  and  circumspect.  Even  the 
pits  of  the  small-pox  which  dented  that  veteran  face 
seemed  deeper,  and  the  skin  itself  browner  than  usual. 
His  broad  queue,  braided  at  the  edges,  had  fallen  upon 
one  of  his  epaulettes  as  he  replaced  his  three-cornered 
hat,  and  he  flung  it  back  with  such  fury  that  the  ends 
became  untied.  However,  as  he  stood  stock-still,  his 
hands  clenched,  his  arms  crossed  tightly  over  his  breast, 
his  mustache  bristling,  Gerard  ventured  to  ask  him  pres- 
ently :  "  Are  we  to  start  at  once?  " 

^'  Yes,  if  the  men  have  ammunition." 

"They  have." 

"  Shoulder  arms  !  Left  wheel,  forward,  march ! " 
cried  Gerard,  at  a  sign  from  the  commandant. 

The  drum -corps  marched  at  the  head  of  the  two  com- 
panies designated  by  Gerard.  At  the  first  roll  of  the 
drums  the  commandant,  who  still  stood  plunged  in 
thought,  seemed  to  rouse  himself,  and  he  left  the  town 
accompanied  by  his  two  officers,  to  whom  he  said  not  a 
word.  Merle  and  Gerard  looked  at  each  other  silently 
as  if  to  ask,  '^  How  long  is  he  going  to  keep  us  in  sus- 
pense ?  "  and,  as  they  marched,  they  cautiously  kept  an 
observing  eye  on  their  leader,  who  continued  to  vent 
rambling  words  between  his  teeth.  Several  times  these 
vague  phrases  sounded  like  oaths  in  the  ears  of  his  sol- 
diers, but  not  one  of  them  dared  to  utter  a  word ;  for 
they  all,  when  occasion  demanded,  maintained  the  stern 


The   Ohouans.  73 

discipline  to  which  the  veterans  who  had  served  under 
Bonaparte  in  Italy  were  accustomeid.  The  greater  part 
of  them  had  belonged,  like  Hulot,  to  the  famous  bat- 
talions which  capitulated  at  Mayenne  under  a  promise 
not  to  serve  again  on  the  frontier,  and  the  array  called 
them  '•  Les  MayenQais."  It  would  be  difficult  to  find 
leaders  and  men  who  more  thoroughly  understood  each 
other. 

At  dawn  of  the  day  after  their  departure  Hulot  and 
his  troop  were  on  the  high-road  to  Alengon,  about  three 
miles  from  that  town  towards  Mortagne,  at  a  part  of 
the  road  which  leads  through  pastures  watered  by  the 
Sarthe.  A  picturesque  vista  of  these  meadows  lay  to 
the  left,  while  the  woodlands  on  the  right  which  flank 
the  road  and  join  the  great  forest  of  Menil-B roust,  serve 
as  a  foil  to  the  delightful  aspect  of  the  river-scenery. 
The  narrow  causeway  is  bordered  on  each  side  b\' 
ditches  the  soil  of  which,  being  constantlj^  thrown  out 
upon  the  fields,  has  formed  high  banks  covered  with 
furze,  —  the  name  given  throughout  the  West  to  the 
prickly  gorse.  This  shrub,  which  spreads  itself  in  thorny 
masses,  makes  excellent  fodder  in  winter  for  horses 
and  cattle ;  but  as  long  as  it  was  not  cut  the  Chouans 
hid  themselves  behind  its  breastwork  of  dull  green. 
These  banks  bristling;  with  gorse,  signify  ing  to  travel- 
lers their  approach  to  Brittany,  made  this  part  of  the 
road  at  the  period  of  which  we  write  as  dangerous  as 
it  was  beautiful ;  it  was  these  dangers  which  compelled 
the  hast}'  departure  of  Hulot  and  his  soldiers,  and  it 
was  here  that  he  at  last  let  out  the  secret  of  his  wrath. 

He  was  now  on  his  return,  escorting  an  old  mall- 
coach  drawn  by  post-horses,  which  the  weariness  of  his 
soldiers,  after  their  forced  march,  was  compelling  to  ad- 


74  The   Ohouans. 

vance  at  a  snail's  pace.  The  compam'  of  Blues  from 
the  garrison  at  Mortagne,  who  had  escorted  the  rickety 
vehicle  to  the  limits  of  their  district,  where  Hulot  and 
his  men  had  met  them,  could  be  seen  in  the  distance, 
on  their  way  back  to  their  quarters,  like  so  many  black 
specks.  One  of  Hulot's  companies  was  in  the  rear, 
the  other  in  advance  of  the  carriage.  The  comman- 
dant, who  was  marching  with  Merle  and  Gerard  be- 
tween the  advance  guard  and  the  carriage,  suddenl}- 
growled  out :  '^Ten  thousand  thunders  !  would  3'ou  be- 
believe  that  the  general  detached  us  from  Mayenne  to 
escort  two  petticoats  ?  " 

"  But,  commandant,''  remarked  Gerard,  "  when  we 
came  up  just  now  and  took  charge  I  observed  that  you 
bowed  to  them  not  ungraciously." 

"  Ha !  that 's  the  infsLmy  of  it.  Those  dandies  in 
Paris  ordered  the  greatest  attention  paid  to  their 
damned  females.  How  dare  the}'  dishonor  good  and 
brave  patriots  by  trailing  us  after  petticoats?  As  for 
me,  I  march  straight,  and  I  don't  choose  to  have  to  do 
with  other  people's  zigzags.  When  I  saw  Danton  tak- 
ing mistresses,  and  Barras  too,  I  said  to  them :  '  Citi- 
zens, when  the  Republic  called  you  to  govern,  it  was 
not  that  you  might  authorize  the  vices  of  the  old 
regime.'  You  may  tell  me  that  women  —  oh  yes!  we 
must  have  women,  that's  all  right.  Good  soldiers  of 
course  must  have  women,  and  good  women ;  but  in 
times  of  danger,  no !  Besides,  where  would  be  the 
good  of  sweeping  away  the  old  abuses  if  patriots  bring 
them  back  again  ?  Look  at  the  First  Consul,  there  's 
a  man !  no  women  for  him  ;  always  about  his  business. 
I  'd  bet  my  left  mustache  that  he  does  n't  know  the 
fool's  errand  we  've  been  sent  on  ! " 


The   Ohouana.  75 

''But,  commandant,"  said  Merle,  laughing,  "  I  have 
seen  the  tip-end  of  the  nose  of  the  young  lady,  and 
I  '11  declare  the  whole  world  need  n't  be  ashamed  to 
feel  an  itch,  as  I  do,  to  revolve  round  that  carriage  and 
get  up  a  bit  of  a  conversation." 

"  Look  out,  Merle,'-  said  Gerard  ;  ''  the  veiled  beau- 
ties have  a  man  accompanying  them  who  seems  wily 
enough  to  catch  you  in  a  trap." 

"Who?  that  ^^^c?•<92/aW6  whose  little  eyes  are  ferret- 
ting  from  one  side  of  the  road  to  the  other,  as  if  he 
saw  Chouans  ?  The  fellow  seems  to  have  no  legs  ;  the 
moment  his  horse  is  hidden  by  the  carriage,  he  looks 
like  a  duck  with  its  head  sticking  out  of  a  pat6.  If 
that  boob}'  can  hinder  me  from  kissing  the  prett}' 
linnet  —  " 

"'Duck' !  Minnet' !  oh,  my  poor  Merle,  you  have  taken 
wings  indeed !  But  don't  trust  the  duck.  His  green 
eyes  are  as  treacherous  as  the  eyes  of  a  snake,  and  as 
sly  as  those  of  a  woman  who  forgives  her  husband.  I 
distrust  the  Chouans  much  less  than  I  do  those  lawyers 
whose  faces  are  like  bottles  of  lemonade." 

"Pooh!"  cried  Merle,  gayly.  "I'll  risk  it  —  with 
the  commandant's  permission.  That  woman  has  eyes 
like  stars,  and  it's  worth  playing  an}'  stakes  to  see 
them." 

"Caught,  poor  fellow!"  said  Gerard  to  the  com- 
mandant ;  "  he  is  beginning  to  talk  nonsense ! " 

Hulot  made  a  face,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
said :  * '  Before  he  swallows  the  soup,  I  advise  him 
to   smell  it." 

"  Bravo,  Merle,"  said  Gerard,  judging  by  his  friend's 
lagging  step  that  he  meant  to  let  the  carriage  overtake 
him.   ^"  Isn't  he  a  happ}'  fellow?     He  is  the  only  man 


76  The   Chonans. 

I  know  who  can  laugh  over  the  death  of  a  comrade 
without  being  thought  unfeehng." 

''He's  the  true  French  soldier,"  said  Hulot.  in  a 
grave  tone. 

' '  Just  look  at  him  pulling  his  epaulets  back  to  his 
shoulders,  to  show  he  is  a  captain,"  cried  Gerard, 
laughing,  —  "as   if  his   rank   mattered!" 

The  coach  toward  which  the  officer  was  pivoting  did. 
in  fact,  contain  two  women,  one  of  whom  seemed  to 
be  the  servant  of  the  other. 

"  Such  women  alwa3's  run  in  couples,"  said  Hulot. 

A  lean  and  sharp-looking  little  man  ambled  his  horse 
sometimes  before,  sometimes  behind  the  carriage  ;  but. 
though  he  was  evidently  accompanying  these  privileged 
women,  no  one  had  yet  seen  him  speak  to  them.  This 
silence,  a  proof  of  either  respect  or  contempt,  as  the 
case  might  be ;  the  quantity  of  baggage  belonging  to 
the  lad}',  whom  the  commandant  sneeringh'  called  "the 
princess ; "  everything,  even  to  the  clothes  of  her  at- 
tendant squire,  stirred  Hulot's  bile.  The  dress  of  the 
unknown  man  was  a  good  specimen  of  the  fashions  of 
the  day  then  being  caricatured  as  "  incroj^able,"  —  un- 
believable, unless  seen.  Imagine  a  person  trussed  up  in 
a  coat,  the  front  of  which  was  so  short  that  five  or  six 
inches  of  the  waistcoat  came  below  it,  while  the  skirts 
were  so  long  that  they  hung  down  behind  like  the  tail 
of  a  cod,  —  the  term  then  used  to  describe  them.  An 
enormous  cravat  was  wound  about  his  neck  in  so  many 
folds  that  the  little  head  which  protruded  from  that 
muslin  labyrinth  certainly  did  justif}'  Captain  Merle's 
comparison.  The  stranger  also  wore  tight-fitting  trou- 
sers and  Suwaroff  boots.  A  huge  l)lue-and-white  cameo 
pinned  his  shirt ;  two  watch-chains  hung  from  his  belt ; 


The   Chouans.  77 

his  hair,  worn  in  ringlets  on  each  side  his  face,  con- 
cealed nearly  the  whole  forehead  ;  and,  for  a  last  adorn- 
ment, the  collar  of  his  shirt  and  that  of  his  coat  came 
so  high  that  his  head  seemed  enveloped  like  a  bunch  of 
flowers  in  a  horn  of  paper.  Add  to  these  queer  acces- 
sories, which  were  combined  in  utter  want  of  harmony, 
the  burlesque  contradictions  in  color  of  yellow  trousers, 
scarlet  waistcoat,  cinnamon  coat,  and  a  correct  idea 
will  be  gained  of  the  supreme  good  taste  which  all 
dandies  blindly  obeyed  in  the  first  years  of  the  Con- 
sulate. This  costume,  utterly  uncouth,  seemed  to  have 
been  invented  as  a  final  test  of  grace,  and  to  show  that 
there  was  nothing  too  ridiculous  for  fashion  to  conse- 
crate. The  rider  seemed  to  be  about  thirty  years  old, 
but  he  was  really  twenty-two  ;  perhaps  he  owed  this 
appearance  of  age  to  debauchery,  possibly  to  the  perils 
of  the  period.  In  spite  of  his  preposterous  dress,  he 
had  a  certain  elegance  of  manner  which  proved  him 
to  be  a  man  of  some  breeding. 

When  the  captain  had  dropped  back  close  to  the 
carriage,  the  dandy  seemed  to  fathom  his  design,  and 
favored  it  by  checking  his  horse.  Merle,  who  had 
flung  him  a  sardonic  glance,  encountered  one  of  those 
impenetrable  faces,  trained  by  the  vicissitudes  of  the 
Revolution  to  hide  all,  even  the  most  insignificant, 
emotion.  The  moment  the  curved  end  of  the  old  tri- 
angular hat  and  the  captain's  epaulets  were  seen  by 
the  occupants  of  the  carriage,  a  voice  of  angelic  sweet- 
ness said :  "  Monsieur  roflficier,  will  you  have  the  kind- 
ness to  tell  us  at  what  part  of  the  road  we  now  are  ?  " 

There  is  some  inexpressible  charm  in^  the  question 
of  an  unknown  traveller,  if  a  woman,  —  a  world  of  Ad- 
venture is  in  every  word ;  but  if  the  woman  asks  for 


78  The   Chouans. 

assistance  or  information,  proving  her  weakness  or  ig- 
norance of  certain  things,  every  man  Is  inclined  to 
construct  some  impossible  tale  which  shall  lead  to  his 
happiness.  The  words,  '*  Monsieur  I'officier,"  and  the 
polite  tone  of  the  question  stirred  the  captain's  heart 
in  a  manner  hitherto  unknown  to  him.  He  tried  to 
examine  the  lady,  but  was  cruelly  disappointed,  for  a 
jealous  veil  concealed  her  features ;  he  could  barely  see 
her  eyes,  which  shone  through  the  gauze  like  onyx 
gleaming  in  the  sunshine. 

"  You  are  now  three  miles  from  Alen^on,  madame," 
he  replied. 

^*  Alen9on  !  alreadj' !  "  and  the  lady  threw  herself, 
or,  rather,  she  gently  leaned  back  in  the  carriage,  and 
said  no  more. 

'*  Alengon?  "  said  the  other  woman,  apparently  wak 
ing  up  ;  "  then  you  '11  see  it  again." 

She  caught  sight  of  the  captain  and  was  silent. 
Merle,  disappointed  in  his  hope  of  seeing  the  face  of 
the  beautiful  incognita,  began  to  examine  that  of  her 
companion.  She  was  a  girl  about  twenty  six  years 
of  age,  fair,  with  a  pretty  figure  and  the  sort  of  com- 
plexion, fresh  and  white  and  well-fed,  which  character- 
izes the  women  of  Valognes,  Baj'eux,  and  the  environs 
of  AlenQon.  Her  blue  e3'es  showed  no  great  intelli- 
gence, but  a  certain  firmness  mingled  with  tender  feeling. 
She  wore  a  gown  of  some  common  woollen  stuff-  The 
fashion  of  her  hair,  done  up  closely  under  a  Norman 
cap,  without  any  pretension,  gave  a  charming  simplicity 
to  her  face.  Her  attitude,  without,  of  course,  having 
any  of  the  conventional  nobility  of  society,  was  not  with- 
out the  natural  dignitj^  of  a  modest  young  girl,  who  can 
look  back  upon  her  past  life  without  a  single  cause  for 


The   Chouans.  79 

repentance.  Merle  knew  her  at  a  glance  for  one  of 
those  wild  flowers  which  are  sometimes  taken  from 
their  native  fields  to  Parisian  hot-houses,  where  so 
many  blasting  raj's  are  concentrated,  without  ever  losing 
the  purity-  of  their  color  or  their  rustic  simplicity. 
The  naive  attitude  of  the  girl  and  her  modest  glance 
showed  Merle  ver}'  plainly  that  she  did  not  wish  a  lis- 
tener. In  fact,  no  sooner  had  he  withdrawn  than  the 
two  women  began  a  conversation  in  so  low  a  tone  that 
only  a  murmur  of  it  reached  his  ear. 

"  You  came  away  in  such  a  hurry,"  said  the  country- 
girl,  "that  you  hardly  took  time  to  dress.  A  pretty- 
looking  sight  you  are  now !  If  we  are  going  beyond 
Alenqon  you  must  really  make  your  toilet." 

"  Oh  !  oh  !  Francine  !  "  cried  the  lady. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  This  is  the  third  time  you  have  tried  to  make  me 
tell  you  the  reasons  for  this  journey  and  where  we  are 
going." 

"  Have  I  said  one  single  word  which  deserves  that 
reproach  ?  " 

'*0h,  I've  noticed  your  manoeuvring.  Simple  and 
truthful  as  you  are,  you  have  learned  a  little  cunning 
from  me.  You  are  beginning  to  hold  questioning  in 
horror ;  and  right  enough,  too,  for  of  all  the  known 
ways  of  getting  at  a  secret,  questions  are,  to  my  mind, 
the  silliest." 

"  Well,"  said  Francine,  "  since  nothing  escapes  you, 
you  must  admit,  Marie,  that  3'our  conduct  would  excite 
the  curiosity  of  a  saint.  Yesterday  without  a  penny, 
to-day  your  hands  are  full  of  gold ;  at  Mortagne  they 
give  you  the  mail-coach  which  was  pillaged  and  the 
driver  killed,  with  government  troops  to  protect  you, 


80  The   Chouans. 

and  you  are  followed  by  a  man  whom  I  regard  as  your 
evil  genius." 

"Who?  Corentin?"  said  the  3^oung  lad}',  accenting 
the  words  b}^  two  inflections  of  her  voice  expressive  of 
contempt,  a  sentiment  which  appeared  in  the  gesture 
with  which  she  waved  her  hand  towards  the  rider. 
"  Listen,  Francine,"  she  said.  "  Do  you  remember 
Patriot,  the  monkey  I  taught  to  imitate  Danton?" 

''Yes,  mademoiselle." 

"  Well,  were  you  afraid  of  him  ?  " 

"  He  was  chained." 

"And  Corentin  is  muzzled,  my  dear." 

"  We  used  to  play  with  Patriot  b}'  the  hour,"  said 
Francine,  —  "I  know  that ;  but  he  always  ended  by 
serving  us  some  bad  trick."  So  saying,  Francine  threw 
herself  hastily  back  close  to  her  mistress,  whose  hands 
she  caught  and  kissed  in  a  coaxing  way ;  sa3-ing  in  a 
tone  of  deep  affection:  "You  know  what  I  mean, 
Marie,  but  you  will  not  answer  me.  How  can  5-0 u,  after 
all  that  sadness  which  did  so  grieve  me  —  oh,  indeed 
it  grieved  me  !  —  how  can  you,  in  twenty -four  hours, 
change  about  and  become  so  gay?  you,  who  talked  of 
suicide  !  Why  have  you  changed  ?  I  have  a  right  to 
ask  these  questions  of  your  soul  —  it  is  mine,  my  claim 
to  it  is  before  that  of  others,  for  you  will  never  be  better 
loved  than  you  are  by  me.     Speak,  mademoiselle." 

"Why,  Francine,  don't  you  see  all  around  j^ou  the 
secret  of  my  good  spirits?  Look  at  the  yellowing  tufts 
of  those  distant  tree-tops  ;  not  one  is  like  another.  As 
we  look  at  them  from  this  distance  don't  the}'  seem  like 
an  old  bit  of  tapestry?  See  the  hedges  from  behind 
which  the  Chouans  maj-  spring  upon  us  at  an}'  moment. 
Wbei?  I  look^t  that  gorse  I  fancy  I  can  see  the  muzzles 


The    Chouans.  81 

of  their  guns.  Even*  time  the  road  is  shady  under 
the  trees  I  fancy  I  shall  hear  firing,  and  then  m}-  heart 
beats-  and  a  new  sensation  comes  over  me.  It  is  neither 
the  shuddering  of  fear  nor  an  emotion  of  pleasure  ;  no, 
it  is  better  than  either,  it  is  the  stirring  of  everything 
within  me  —  it  is  life  !  Why  should  n't  I  be  gay  when 
a  little  excitement  is  dropped  into  m}^  monotonous 
existence  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  you  are  telling  me  nothing,  cruel  girl !  H0I3' 
Virgin  !  "  added  Francine,  raising  her  ej'es  in  distress 
to  heaven  ;  "to  whom  will  she  confess  herself  if  she 
denies  the  truth  to  me?  " 

"  Francine,"  said  the  lady,  in  a  grave  tone,  "  I  can't 
explain  to  you  my  present  enterprise  ;  it  is  horrible." 

"  Wh}'  do  wrong  when  you  know  it  to  be  wrong  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  help  it?  I  catch  myself  thinking  as  if 
I  were  fifty,  and  acting  as  if  I  were  still  fifteen.  You 
have  always  been  my  better  self,  my  poor  Francine,  but 
in  this  affair  I  must  stifle  conscience.  And,"  she 
added  after  a  pause,  with  a  deep  sigh,  "  I  cannot. 
Therefore,  how  can  you  expect  me  to  take  a  confessor 
as  stern  as  you?  "  and  she  patted  the  girl's  hand. 

"When  did  I  ever  blame  3'our  actions?"  cried 
Francine.  "Evil  is  so  mixed  with  good  in  your 
nature.  Ye's,  Saint  Anne  of  Auray,  to  whom  I  pray 
to  save  you,  will  absolve  you  for  all  you  do.  And, 
Marie,  am  I  not  here  beside  you,  without  so  much 
as  knowing  where  you  go?"  and  she  kissed  her 
hands   with   eflfusion. 

"But,"  replied  Marie,  "you  may  yet  desert  me, 
if  your   conscience — " 

"  Hush,  hush,  mademoiselle,"  cried  Francine,  with 
a  hurt  expression.     "  But  surely  you  will  tell  me  —  " 


82  The   Chouans. 

"  Nothing ! "  said  the  young  lady,  in  a  resolute 
voice.  ''Only  —  and  I  wish  you  to  know  it — I  hate 
this  enterprise  even  more  than  I  hate  him  whose  gilded 
tongue  induced  me  to  undertake  it.  I  will  be  frank 
and  own  to  you  that  I  would  never  have  yielded  to 
their  wishes  if  I  had  not  foreseen,  in  this  ignoble 
farce,  a  mingling  of  love  and  danger  which  tempted 
me.  I  cannot  bear  to  leave  this  empty  world  without 
at  least  attempting  to  gather  the  flowers  that  it  owes 
me,  —  whether  I  perish  in  the  attempt  or  not.  But 
remember,  for  the  honor  of  my  memory,  that  had  I 
ever  been  a  happy  woman,  the  sight  of  their  great  knife, 
ready  to  fall  upon  my  neck,  would  not  have  driven  me 
to  accept  a  part  in  this  tragedy  —  for  it  is  a  tragedy. 
But  now,'*  she  said,  with  a  gesture  of  disgust,  "if  it 
were  countermanded,  I  should  instantly  fling  myself 
into  the  Sarthe.  It  would  not  be  destroying  life,  for 
I  have  never  lived." 

"  Oh,  Saint  Anne  of  Auray,  forgive  her  !  '■ 

' '  What  are  you  so  afraid  of  r  You  know  very  well  that 
the  dull  round  of  domestic  life  gives  no  opportunity  for 
my  passions.  That  would  be  bad  in  most  women,  I 
admit ;  but  my  soul  is  made  of  a  higher  sensibiUty  and 
can  bear  great  tests.  I  might  have  been,  perhaps,  a 
gentle  being  like  3'ou.  Why,  why  have  I  risen  above 
or  sunk  beneath  the  level  of  my  sex  ?  Ah  !  the  wife  of 
Bonaparte  is  a  happy  woman !  Yes,  I  shall  die  N'oung, 
for  I  am  gay,  as  3'OU  say,  —  gay  at  this  pleasure-party, 
where  there  is  blood  to  drink,  as  that  poor  Danton  used 
to  say.  There,  there,  forget  what  I  am  saying ;  it 
is  the  woman  of  fifty  who  speaks.  Thank  God !  the 
girl  of  fifteen  is  still  within  me." 

The  young  country-girl  shuddered.     She  alone  knew 


The   Chouans.  83 

the  fierj',  impetuous  nature  of  her  mistress.  She  alone 
was  initiated  into  the  mysteries  of  a  soul  rich  with 
enthusiasm,  into  the  secret  emotions  of  a  being  who, 
up  to  this  time,  had  seen  life  pass  her  like  a  shadow 
she  could  not  grasp,  eager  as  she  was  to  do  so.  After 
sowing  broadcast  with  full  hands  and  harvesting  noth- 
ing, this  woman  was  still  virgin  in  soul,  but  irritated  by 
a  multitude  of  baffled  desires.  Wear}'  of  a  struggle 
without  an  adversary,  she  had  reached  in  her  despair  to 
the  point  of  preferring  good  to  evil,  if  it  came  in  the 
form  of  enjoyment ;  evil  to  good,  if  it  offered  her  some 
poetic  emotion ;  misery  to  mediocrity,  as  something 
nobler  and  higher ;  the  gloomy  and  mysterious  future 
of  present  death  to  a  life  without  hopes  or  even  with- 
out sufferings.  Never  in  any  heart  was  so  much 
powder  heaped  ready  for  the  spark,  never  were  so  many 
riches  for  love  to"  feed  on  ;  no  daughter  of  Eve  was  ever 
moulded,  with  a  greater  mixture  of  gold  in  her  cla}'. 
Francine,  like  an  angel  of  earth,  watched  over  this 
being  whose  perfections  she  adored,  believing  that  she 
obeyed  a  celestial  mandate  in  striving  to  bring  that 
spirit  back  among  the  choir  of  seraphim  whence  it  was 
banished  for  the  sin  of  pride. 

''  There  is  the  clock- tower  of  Alen^on,"  said  the 
horseman,    riding    up   to   the    carriage. 

"I  see  it,"  replied  the  young  lady,  in  a  cold  tone. 

"  Ah,  well,"  he  said,  turning  away  with  all  the  signs  of 
servile  submission,  in  spite  of  his  disappointment. 

''  Go  faster,"  said  the  lady  to  the  postilion.  "There 
is  no  longer  any  danger ;  go  at  a  fast  trot,  or  even  a 
gallop,  If  you  can  ;  we  are  almost  into  Alen9on." 

As  the  carriage  passed  the  commandant,  she  called 
out  to  him,  in  a  sweet  voice :  — 


84  The  Chouans. 

"We  will  meet  at  the  inn,  commandant.'  Come  and 
see  me." 

"  Yes.  yes,"  growled  the  commandant.  "  '  The  inn ' ! 
'  Come  and  see  me ' !  Is  that  how  3  ou  speak  to  an  officer 
in  command  of  the  arm}?"  and  he  shook  his  fist  at  the 
carriage,  which  was  now  rolling  rapidly  along  the  load. 

"Don't  be  vexed,  commandant,  she  has  got  3'our 
rank  as  general  up  her  sleeve,"  said  Corentin,  laugh- 
ing, as  he  endeavored  to  put  his  horse  into  a  gallop  to 
overtake  the  carriage. 

'^  I  sha'n't  let  myself  be  fooled  by  any  such  folks  as 
they,"  said  Hulot  to  his  two  friends,  in  a  growling 
tone.  ^'  I  'd  rather  throw  my  general's  coat  into  that 
ditch  than  earn  it  out  of  a  bed.  What  are  these  birds 
after?     Have  you  an}-  idea,  either  of  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Merle,  "I've  an  idea  that  that's  the 
handsomest  woman  I  ever  saw  !  I  think  you  're  read- 
ing the  riddle  all  wrong.  Perhaps  she  's  the  wife  of  the 
First  Consul." 

"  Pooh !  the  First  Consul's  wife  is  old,  and  this 
woman  is  young,"  said  Hulot.  "Besides,  the  order  I 
received  from  the  minister  gives  her  name  as  Made- 
moiselle de  Verneuil.  She  is  a  ci-devant.  Don't  I 
know  'em  ?  They  all  plied  one  trade  before  the  Revo- 
lution, and  any  man  could  make  himself  a  major,  or  a 
general  in  double-quick  time  ;  all  he  had  to  do  was  to 
say  '  Dear  heart'  to  them  now  and  then." 

While  each  soldier  opened  his  compasses,  as  the  com- 
mandant was  wont  to  sa}-,  the  miserable  vehicle  which 
was  then  used  as  the  mail-coach  drew  up  before  the 
inn  of  the  Trois  Maures,  in  the  middle  of  the  main 
street  of  Alen^on.  The  sound  of  the  wheels  brought 
the  landlord  to  the  door.     No  one  in  Alengon   could 


The   Ohouans.  85 

have  expected  the  arrival  of  the  mail-coach  at  the 
Trois  Maures,  for  the  murderous  attack  upon  the 
coach  at  Mortagne  was  alread}'  known,  and  so  many 
people  followed  it  along  the  street  that  the  two  wo- 
men, anxious  to  escape  the  curiosity  of  the  crowd,  ran 
quickly  into  the  kitchen,  which  forms  the  inevitable 
antechamber  to  all  Western  inns.  The  landlord  was 
about  to  follow  them,  after  examining  the  coach,  when 
the  postilion  caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"Attention,  citizen  Brutus,"  he  said;  "there's  an 
escort  of  the  Blues  behind  us  ;  but  it  is  I  who  bring  you 
these  female  citizens ;  they  '11  pay  like  ci-devant  prin- 
cesses, therefore  —  " 

"Therefore,  we'll  drink  a  glass  of  wine  together 
presentl}^  m}^  lad,"  said  the  landlord. 

After  glancing  about  the  kitchen,  blackened  with 
smoke,  and  noticing  a  table  bloody  from  raw  meat, 
Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  flew  into  the  next  room  with 
the  celerity  of  a  bird ;  for  she  shuddered  at  the  sight 
and  smell  of  the  place,  and  feared  the  inquisitive  eyes 
of  a  dirty  chef,  and  a  fat  little  woman  who  examined 
her  attentively. 

"What  are  we  to  do,  wife?"  said  the  landlord. 
"Who  the  devil  could  have  supposed  we  would  have 
so  man}^  on  our  hands  in  these  days  ?  Before  I  serve 
her  a  decent  breakfast  that  woman  will  get  impatient. 
Stop,  an  i^lea !  evidently  she  is  a  person  of  qualit3^ 
I  '11  propose  to  put  her  with  the  one  we  have  upstairs. 
What  do  you  think?" 

When  the  landlord  went  to  look  for  the  new  arrival 
he  found  only  Francine,  to  whom  he  spoke  in  a  low 
voice,  taking  her  to  the  farther  end  of  the  kitchen,  so 
as  not  to  be  overheard. 


86  The   Chouans. 

"If  the  ladies  wish/'  lie  said,  "to  be  served  in 
private,  as  I  have  no  doubt  they  do,  I  have  a  very  nice 
breakfast  all  ready  for  a  lady  and  her  son,  and  I  dare 
say  would  n't  mind  sharing  it  with  you  ;  they  are  per- 
sons of  condition,"  he  added,  mysteriously. 

He  had  hardly  said  the  words  before  he  felt  a  tap  on 
his  back  from  the  handle  of  a  whip.  He  turned  hastily 
and  saw  behind  him  a  short,  thick-set  man,  who  had 
noiselessly  entered  from  a  side  room,  —  an  apparition 
which  seemed  to  terrify  the  hostess,  the  cook,  and  the 
scullion.  The  landlord  turned  pale  when  he  saw  the 
intruder,  who  shook  back  the  hair  which  concealed  his 
forehead  and  eyes,  raised  himself  on  the  points  of  his 
toes  to  reach  the  other's  ears,  and  said  to  him  in  a 
whisper :  "  You  know  the  cost  of  an  imprudence  or  a 
betra3'al,  and  the  color  of  the  money  we  pay  it  in.  We 
are  generous  in  that  coin." 

He  added  a  gesture  which  was  like  a  horrible  com- 
mentary to  his  words.  Though  the  rotundity  of  the 
landlord  prevented  Francine  from  seeing  the  stranger, 
who  stood  behind  him,  she  caught  certain  words  of  his 
threatening  speech,  and  was  thunderstruck  at  hearing 
the  hoarse  tones  of  a  Breton  voice.  She  sprang  towards 
the  man,  but  he,  seeming  to  move  with  the  agilitj^  of  a 
wild  animal,  had  already'  darted  through  a  side  door 
which  opened  on  the  courtyard.  Utterl}-  amazed,  she 
ran  to  the  window.  Through  its  panes,  yellowed  with 
smoke,  she  caught  sight  of  the  stranger  as  he  was  about 
to  enter  the  stable.  Before  doing  so,  however,  he 
turned  a  pair  of  black  eyes  to  the  upper  story  of  the 
inn,  and  thence  to  the  mail-coach  in  the  3*ard,  as  if  to 
call  some  friend's  attention  to  the  vehicle.  In  spite  of 
his   muffling   goatskin    and    thanks   to  this  movement 


The   Chouans,  87 

which  allowed  her  to  see  his  face,  Francine  recognized 
the  Chouan,  Marche-k-Terre,  with  his  heavy  whip ;  she 
saw  him,  indistincth',  in  the  obscurity  of  the  stable, 
fling  himself  down  on  a  pile  of  straw,  in  a  position 
which  enabled  him  to  keep  an  eye  on  all  that  happened 
at  the  inn.  Marche-a-Terre  curled  himself  up  in  such 
a  way  that  the  cleverest  spy,  at  any  distance  far  or 
near,  might  have  taken  him  for  one  of  those  huge  dogs 
that  drag  the  hand-carts,  lying  asleep  with  his  muzzle 
on  his  paws. 

The  behavior  of  the  Chouan  proved  to  Francine  that 
he  had  not  recognized  her.  Under  the  hazardous  cir- 
cumstances which  she  felt  her  mistress  to  be  in,  she 
scarcely  knew  whether  to  regret  or  to  rejoice  in  this 
unconsciousness.  But  the  mysterious  connection  be- 
tween the  landlord's  offer  (not  uncommon  among  inn- 
keepers, who  can  thus  kill  two  birds  with  one  stone), 
and  the  Chouan's  threats,  piqued  her  curiosity.  She 
left  the  dirty  window  from  which  she  could  see  the 
formless  heap  which  she  knew  to  be  Marche-a-Terre, 
and  returned  to  the  landlord,  who  was  still  standing  in 
the  attitude  of  a  man  who  feels  he  has  made  a  blunder, 
and  does  not  know  how  to  get  out  of  it.  The  Chouan's 
gesture  had  petrified  the  poor  fellow.  No  one  in  the 
West  was  ignorant  of  the  cruel  refinements  of  torture 
with  which  the  "  Chasseurs  du  Roi  "  punished  those  who 
were  even  suspected  of  indiscretion  ;  the  landlord  felt 
their  knives  already  at  his  throat.  The  cook  looked 
with  a  shudder  at  the  iron  stove  on  which  they  often 
"warmed"  (''  chauffaient")  the  feet  of  those  they  sus- 
pected. The  fat  landlady  held  a  knife  in  one  hand  and 
a  half-peeled  potato  in  the  other,  and  gazed  at  her  hus- 
band with  a  stupefied  air.     Even  the  sculUon  puzzled 


88  The  Chouans. 

himself  to  know  the  reason  of  their  speechless  terror. 
Francine's  curiosity  was  naturally  excited  by  this  si- 
lent scene,  the  principal  actor  of  which  was  visible  to  all, 
though  departed.  The  girl  was  gratified  at  the  evident 
power  of  the  Chouan,  and  thougli  b}'  nature  too  simple 
and  humble  for  the  tricks  of  a  lady's  maid,  she  was  also 
far  too  anxious  to  penetrate  the  myster3*  not  to  profit 
l)y  her  advantages  on  this  occasion. 

"  Mademoiselle  accepts  your  proposal,"  she  said  to 
the  landlord,  who  jumped  as  if  suddenly  awakened  by 
her  words. 

"  What  proposal?"  he  asked  with  genuine  surprise. 

"What  proposal?"  asked  Corentin,  entering  the 
kitchen . 

"  What  proposal?"  asked  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil, 
returning  to  it. 

''What  proposal?"  asked  a  fourth  individual  on  the 
lower  step  of  the  staircase,  who  now  sprang  lightly  into 
the  kitchen. 

"  Why  the  breakfast  with  your  persons  of  distinc- 
tion," replied  Francine,  impatiently. 

''Distinction  !  "  said  the  ringing  and  ironical  voice  oi 
the  person  who  had  just  come  down  the  stairway. 
"  M}'  good  fellow,  that  strikes  me  as  a  very  poor  inn 
joke  ;  but  if  it 's  the  company  of  this  .young  female  citi- 
zen that  you  want  to  give  us,  we  should  be  fools  to  re- 
fuse it.  In  my  mother's  absence,  I  accept,"  he  added, 
striking  the  astonished  inn-keeper  on  the  shoulder. 

The  charming  heedlessness  of  youth  disguised  the 
haughty  insolence  of  the  words,  which  drew  the  atten- 
tion of  ever}'  one  present  to  the  new-comer.  The  land- 
lord at  once  assumed  the  countenance  of  Pilate  washing 
his  hands  of  the  blood  of  that  just  man  ;  he  slid  back 


The   Chouans.        -  89 

two  steps  to  reach  his  wife's  ear,  and  whispered,  "  You 
are  witness,  if  an}-  harm  comes  of  it,  that  it  is  not  my 
fault  But,  anyhow,''  he  added,  in  a  voice  that  was 
lower  still,  '•  go  and  tell  Monsieur  Marche-a-Terre  what 
has  happened." 

The  traveller,  who  was  a  young  man  of  medium 
height,  wore  a  dark  blue  coat  and  high  black  gaiters 
coming  above  the  knee  and  over  the  breeches,  which 
were  also  of  blue  cloth.  This  simple  uniform,  with- 
out epaulets,  was  that  of  the  pupils  of  the  Ecole  Polj^- 
technique.  Beneath  this  plain  attire  Mademoiselle  de 
Verneuil  could  distinguish  at  a  glance  the  elegant  shape 
and  nameless  something  that  tells  of  natural  nobility. 
The  face  of  the  young  man,  which  was  rather  ordinary 
at  first  sight,  soon  attracted  the  eye  by  the  conforma- 
tion of  certain  features  which  revealed  a  soul  capable 
of  great  things.  A  bronzed  skin,  curly  fair  hair,  spark- 
ling blue  eyes,  a  delicate  nose,  motions  full  of  ease,  all 
disclosed  a  life  guided  by  noble  sentiments  and  trained 
to  the  habit  of  command.  But  tlio  most  characteristic 
signs  of  his  nature  were  in  the  chin,  which  was  dented 
like  that  of  Bonaparte,  and  in  the  lower  lip,  which 
joined  the  upper  one  with  a  graceful  curve,  like  that  of 
an  acanthus  leaf  on  the  capital  of  a  Corinthian  column. 
Nature  had  given  to  these  two  features  of  his  face  an 
irresistible  charm. 

"This  young  man  has  singular  distinction  if  he  is 
really  a  republican,"  thouglit  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil. 

To  see  all  this  at  a  glance,  to  brighten  at  the  thought 
of  pleasing,  to  bend  her  head  softly  and  smile  coquet- 
tishly  and  cast  a  soft  look  able  to  revive  a  heart  that 
was  dead  to  love,  to  veil  her  long  black  eyes  with  lids 
whose  curving  lashes  made  shadows  on  her  cheeks,  to 


90  The   Chouans. 

choose  the  melodious  tones  of  her  voice  and  give  a 
penetrating  charm  to  the  formal  words,  "  Monsieur,  we 
are  very  much  obliged  to  you," — all  this  charming 
b3'-play  took  less  time  than  it  has  taken  to  describe 
it.  After  this,  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  addressing 
the  landlord,  asked  to  be  shown  to  a  room,  saw  the 
staircase,  and  disappeared  with  Francine,  leaving  the 
stranger  to  discover  whether  her  reply  was  intended 
as  an  acceptance  or  a  refusal. 

''Who  is  that  woman?"  asked  the  Poly  technique 
student,  in  an  airy  manner,  of  the  landlord,  who  still 
stood  motionless  and  bewildered. 

"  That 's  the  female  citizen  VerneuiV^  replied  Coren- 
tin,  sharply,  looking  jealously  at  the  questioner;  "a 
ci-devant ;  what  is  she  to  you  ?  " 

The  stranger,  who  was  humming  a  revolutionary  tune, 
turned  his  head  haughtily  towards  Corentin.  The  two 
young  men  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment  like 
cocks  about  to  fight,  and  the  glance  they  exchanged 
gave  birth  to  a  hatred  which  lasted  forever.  The  blue 
eye  of  the  3'oung  soldier  was  as  frank  and  honest  as  the 
green  eye  of  the  other  man  was  false  and  malicious ; 
the  manners  of  the  one  had  native  grandeur,  those  of 
the  other  were  insinuating ;  one  was  eager  in  his  ad- 
vance, the  other  deprecating ;  one  commanded  respect, 
the  other  sought  it. 

"Is  the  citizen  du  Gua  Saint-Cyr  here?  "  said  a  peas- 
ant, entering  the  kitchen  at  that  moment. 

"What  do  you  want  of  him?"  said  the  young  man, 
coming  forward. 

The  peasant  made  a  low  bow  and  gave  him  a  letter, 
which  the  young  cadet  read  and  threw  into  the  fire ; 
then  he  nodded  his  iiead  and  the  man  withdrew. 


The   Chouans.  91 

"No  doubt  you've  come  from  Paris,  citizen?"  said 
Corentin,  approaching  the  stranger  with  a  certain  ease 
of  manner,  and  a  pliant,  affable  air  which  seemed  intol- 
erable to  the  citizen  du  Gua. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  shortl}'. 

**  I  suppose  you  have  been  graduated  into  some 
grade  of  the  artillery  ?  " 

"  No,  citizen,  into  the  navy/-' 

"Ah!  then  you  are  going  to  Brest? '^  said  Corentin, 
interrogatively. 

But  the  young  sailor  turned  lightly  on  the  heels  of 
his  shoes  without  deigning  to  reply,  and  presently  dis- 
appointed all  the  expectations  which  Mademoiselle  de 
Verneuil  had  based  on  the  cliarm  of  his  appearance. 
He  applied  himself  to  ordering  liis  breakfast  with  the 
eagerness  of  a  boy,  questioned  the  cook  and  the  land- 
lady about  their  receipt^,  wondered  at  provincial  cus- 
toms hke  a  Parisian  just  out  of  his  shell,  made  as 
many  objections  as  any  fine  lady,  and  showed  the  more 
lack  of  mind  and  character  because  his  face  and  man- 
ners had  seemed  to  promise  them.  Corentin  smiled  with 
pity  when  he  saw  the  face  he  made  on  tasting  the  best 
cider  of  Normandy. 

' '  Heu  !  "  he  cried  ;  ' '  how  can  you  swallow  such  stuff 
as  that?  It  is  meat  and  drink  both.  I  don't  wonder 
the  RepubUc  distrusts  a  province  where  they  knock  their 
harvest  from  trees  with  poles,  and  shoot  travellers  from 
the  ditches.  Pray  don't  put  such  medicine  as  that  on 
the  table  ;  give  us  some  good  Bordeaux,  white  and  red. 
And  above  all,  do  see  if  there  is  a  good  fire  upstairs. 
These  country-people  are  so  backward  in  civilization  ! " 
he  added.  "  Alas  !  "  sighing,  "  there  is  but  one  Paris  in 
the  world  ;  what  a  pity  it  is  I  can't  transpot  it  to  sea ! 


92  The   Chouans. 

Heavens  !  spoil-sauce !  "  he  suddenty  cried  out  to  the 
cook;"  what  makes  you  put  vinegar  in  that  fricassee 
when  you  have  lemons?  And,  madame,"  he  added, 
"3'ou  gave  me  such  coarse  sheets  I  couldn't  close  my 
eyes  all  night."  Then  he  began  to  twirl  a  huge  cane, 
executing  with  a  silh'  sort  of  care  a  variety  oC  evolu- 
tions, the  greater  or  less  precision  and  agility  of  which 
were  considered  proofs  of  a  young  man's  standing  in 
the  class  of  the  Incroyablos,  so-called. 

"  And  it  is  with  such  dandies  as  that,"  said  Corentin 
to  the  landlord  confidentially,  watching  his  face,  "  that 
the  Republic  expects  to  improve  her  navy !  '' 

*' That  man,"  said  the  young  sailor  to  the  landlady, 
in  a  low  voice,  "  is  a  spy  of  Fouche's.  He  has  '  police,' 
stamped  on  his  face,  and  I  '11  swear  that  spot  he  has  got 
on  his  chin  is  Paris  mud.    Well,  set  a  thief  to  catch  —  " 

Just  then  a  lady  to  whom  the  young  sailor  turned 
with  every  sign  of  outward  respect,  entered  the  kitchen 
of  the  inn. 

''My  dear  mamma,"  he  said.  "T  am  glad  you've 
come.     I  have  recruited  some  guests  in  your  absence." 

"  Guests?  "  she  replied  ;  "  what  folly  !  " 

"  It  is  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice. 

"She  perished  on  the  scaffold  after  the  affair  of  Save- 
nay ;  she  went  to  Mans  to  save  her  brother  the  Prince 
de  Loudon,"  returned  his  mother,  rather  brusquel}'. 

"You  are  mistaken,  madame,"  said  Corentin,  genth', 
emphasizing  the  word  "  madame ; "  "  there  are  two 
demoiselles  de  Verneuil ;  all  great  houses,  as  you  know, 
have  several  branches." 

The  lady,  surprised  at  this  freedom,  drew  back  a  few 
steps  to  examine  the  speaker ;    she  turned   her   black 


The   Chouans.  93 

eyes  upon  him,  full  of  the  keen  sagacity  so  natural  to 
women,  seeking  appaienth-  to  discover  in  what  interest 
he  stepped  forth  to  explain  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil's 
birth.  Corentin,  on  the  other  hand,  who  was  studying 
the  lady  cautioush',  denied  her  in  his  own  mind  the  joys 
of  motherhood  and  gave  her  those  of  love  ;  he  refused  the 
possession  of  a  son  of  tvvent}'  to  a  woman  whose  daz- 
zling skin,  and  arched  eyebrows,  and  lashes  still  un- 
blemished, were  the  objects  of  his  admiration,  and 
whose  abundant  black  hair,  parted  on  the  forehead  into 
simple  bands,  brought  out  the  youthfulness  of  an  intel- 
ligent head.  The  slight  lines  of  the  brow,  far  from  in- 
dicating age,  revealed  young  passions.  Though  the 
piercing  eyes  were  somewhat  veiled,  it  was  either  from 
the  fatigue  of  travelling  or  the  too  frequent  expression  of 
excitement.  Corentin  remarked  that  she  was  wrapped  in 
a  mantle  of  English  material,  and  that  the  shape  of  her 
hat,  foreign  no  doubt,  did  not  belong  to  any  of  the  styles 
called  Greek,  which  ruled  the  Parisian  fashions  of  the 
period.  Corentin  was  one  of  those  beings  who  are 
compelled  by  the  bent  of  their  natures  to  suspect  evil 
rather  than  good,  and  he  instantly  doubted  the  citizen- 
ship of  the  two  travellers.  The  lady,  who,  on  her  side, 
had  made  her  observations  on  the  person  of  Corentin 
with  equal  rapidity,  turned  to  her  son  with  a  significant 
look  which  may  be  faithfully  translated  into  the  words : 
''  Who  is  this  queer  man?     Is  he  of  our  stripe?  " 

To  this  mute  inquiry  the  youth  rephed  by  an  atti- 
tude and  a  gesture  which  said  :  '*  Faith  !  I  can't  tell ; 
but  I  distrust  him.  Then,  leaving  his  mother  to  fathom 
the  mystery,  he  turned  to  the  landlady  and  whispered : 
"  Try  to  find  out  who  that  fellow  is ;  and  whether  he 
is  reall}^  accompanying  the  young  ladj^ ;  and  why." 


94  The   Okouans. 

"  So/'  said  Madame  du  Gua,  looking  at  Corentin, 
"  you  are  quite  sure,  citizen,  that  Mademoiselle  de  Ver- 
neuil  is  living?  " 

"  She  is  living  in  flesh  and  blood  as  surely,  madame, 
as  the  citizen  du  Gua  Saint-Cyr." 

This  answer  contained  a  sarcasm,  the  hidden  meaning 
of  wliich  was  known  to  none  but  the  lad}-  herself,  and 
any  one  but  herself  would  have  been  disconcerted  by 
it.  Her  son  looked  fixedly  at  Corentin,  who  coolly 
pulled  out  his  watch  without  appearing  to  notice  the 
effect  of  his  answer.  The  lady,  uneasy  and  anxious  to 
discover  at  once  if  the  speech  meant  danger  or  was 
merely  accidental,  said  to  Corentin  in  a  natural  tone 
and  manner:  -'How  little  security"  there  is  on  these 
roads.  We  were  attacked  by  Chouans  just  beyond 
Mortagne.  M}^  son  came  very  near  being  killed ;  he 
received  two  balls  in  his  hat  while  protecting  me." 

"Is  it  possible,  madame?  were  you  in  the  mail- 
coach  which  those  brigands  robbed  in  spite  of  the  es- 
cort, —  the  one  we  have  just  come  by  ?  You  must  know 
the  vehicle  well.  They  told  me  at  Mortagne  that  the 
Chouans  numbered  a  couple  of  thousands  and  that 
every  one  in  the  coach  was  killed,  even  the  travellers. 
That 's  how  history  is  written  !  Alas  !  madame,"  he 
continued,  '•  if  they  murder  travellers  so  near  to  Paris 
you  can  fancy  how  unsafe  the  roads  are  in  Brittany.  1 
shall  return  to  Paris  and  not  risk  myself  any  farther." 

"  Is  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  young  and  hand- 
some? "  said  the  lady  to  the  hostess,  struck  suddenly 
with  an  idea. 

Just  then  the  landlord  interrupted  the  conversation, 
in  which  there  was  something  of  an  angr^'  element,  by 
announcing    that    breakfast   was   read}'.      The   young 


The  Chouans.  95 

sailor  offered  his  hand  to  his  mother  with  an  air  of  false 
familiarity  that  confirmed  the  suspicions  of  Corentin,  to 
whom  the  j'outh  remarked  as  he  went  up  the  stairwaj^ : 
"  Citizen,  if  you  are  travelling  with  the  female  citizen 
de  Verneuil,  and  she  accepts  the  landlord's  proposal, 
you  can  come  too." 

Though  the  words  were  said  in  a  careless  tone  and 
were  not  inviting,  Corentin  followed.  The  young  man 
squeezed  the  lady's  hand  when  they  were  five  or  six 
steps  above  him,  and  said,  in  a  low  voice  :  "  Now  you 
see  the  dangers  to  which  your  imprudent  enterprises, 
which  have  no  glory  in  them,  expose  us.  If  we  are 
discovered,  how  are  we  to  escape?  And  what  a 
contemptible    role   }'ou   force   me   to   play !  " 

All  three  reached  a  large  room  on  the  upper  floor. 
Any  one  who  has  travelled  in  the  West  will  know  that 
the  landlord  had,  on  such  an  occasion,  brought  forth 
his  best  things  to  do  honor  to  his  guests,  and  prepared 
the  meal  with  no  ordinary  luxury-.  The  table  was  care- 
full}^  laid.  The  warmth  of  a  large  fire  took  the  damp- 
ness from  the  room.  The  linen,  glass,  and  china  were 
not  too  dingy.  Corentin  saw  at  once  that  the  landlord 
had,  as  they  say  familiarly,  cut  himself  in  quarters  to 
please  the  strangers.  '"Consequently,"  thought  he, 
"  these  people  are  not  what  they  pretend  to  be.  That 
young  man  is  clever.  I  took  him  for  a  fool,  but  I  begin 
to  believe  him  as  shrewd  as  myself." 

The  sailor,  his  mother,  and  Corentin  awaited  Made- 
moiselle de  Verneuil,  whom  the  landlord  went  to  sum- 
mon. But  the  handsome  traveller  did  not  come.  The 
youth  expected  that  she  would  make  difficulties,  and  he 
left  the  room,  humming  the  popular  song,  "  Guard  the 
nation's  safety,"  and  went  to  that  of  Mademoiselle  de 


96  The   Chouans. 

Verneiiil,  prompted  b3'  a  keen  desire  to  get  the  better 
of  her  scruples  and  take  her  back  with  him.  Perhaps 
he  wanted  to  solve  the  doubts  which  filled  his  mind ;  or 
else  to  exercise  the  power  which  all  men  like  to  think 
the}'  wield  over  a  prett}^  woman. 

"May  I  be  hanged  if  he's  a  Republican,"  thought 
Corentin,  as  he  saw  him  go.  "He  moves  his  shoulders 
like  a  courtier.  And  if  that 's  his  mother,"  he  added, 
mentally,  looking  at  Madame  du  Gua,  "  I  'm  the  Pope  ! 
They  are  Chouans  ;  and  I  '11  make  sure  of  their  quality." 

The  door  soon  opened  and  the  joung  man  entered, 
holding  the  hand  of  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  whom 
he  led  to  the  table  with  an  air  of  self-conceit  that  was 
nevertheless  courteous.  The  devil  had  not  allowed 
that  hour  which  had  elapsed  since  the  lady's  arrival 
to  be  wasted.  With  Francine's  assistance,  Mademoi- 
selle de  Verneuil  had  armed  herself  with  a  travelling- 
dress  more  dangerous,  perhaps,  than  an}'  ball-room 
attire.  Its  simplicity  had  preciseh'  that  attraction 
which  comes  of  the  skill  with  which  a  woman,  hand- 
some enough  to  wear  no  ornaments,  reduces  her  dress 
to  the  position  of  a  secondary  charm.  She  wore  a 
green  gown,  elegantly  cut,  the  jacket  of  which,  braided 
and  frogged,  defined  her  figure  in  a  manner  that  was 
hardly  suitable  for  a  young  girl,  allowing  her  supple 
waist  and  rounded  bust  and  graceful  motions  to  be 
fully  seen.  She  entered  the  room  smihng,  with  the 
natural  amenity  of  women  who  can  show  a  fine  set  of 
teeth,  transparent  as  porcelain  between  rosy  lips,  and 
dimpling  cheeks  as  fresh  as  those  of  childhood.  Having 
removed  the  close  hood  which  had  almost  concealed 
her  head  at  her  first  meeting  with  the  3'oung  sailor,  she 
could  now  employ  at  her  ease  the  various  little  artifices, 


The  Chouans.  97 

apparently  so  artless,  with  which  a  woman  shows  off 
the  beauties  of  her  face  and  the  grace  of  her  head,  and 
attracts  admiration  for  them.  A  certain  harmony  be- 
tween her  manners  and  her  dress  made  her  seem  so 
much  younger  than  she  was  that  Madame  du  Gua 
thought  herself  beyond  the  mark  in  supposing  her  over 
twenty.  The  coquetry  of  her  apparel,  evidently  worn  to 
please,  was  enough  to  inspire  hope  in  the  young  man's 
breast ;  but  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  bowed  to  him, 
as  she  took  her  place,  with  a  slight  inclination  of  her 
head  and  without  looking  at  him,  putting  him  aside 
with  an  apparently  light-hearted  carelessness  which 
disconcerted  him.  This  coolness  might  have  seemed 
to  an  observer  neither  caution  nor  coquetry,  but  indif- 
ference, natural  or  feigned.  The  candid  expression  on 
the  young  lady's  face  only  made  it  the  more  impene- 
trable. She  showed  no  consciousness  of  her  cliarms, 
and  was  apparentl}-  gifted  with  the  pretty  manners  that 
win  all  hearts,  and  had  already  duped  the  natural  self- 
conceit  of  the  young  sailor.  Thus  baffled,  the  youth 
returned  to  his  own  seat  with  a  sort  of  vexation. 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  took  Francine,  who  ac- 
companied her,  by  the  hand  and  said,  in  a  caressing 
voice,  turning  to  Madame  de  Gua :  "  Madame,  will  you 
have  the  kindness  to  allow  this  young  girl,  who  is  more 
a  friend  than  a  servant  to  me,  to  sit  with  us  ?  In  these 
perilous  times  such  devotion  as  hers  can  only  be  repaid 
by  the  heart;  indeed,  that  is  very  nearly  all  that  is 
left  to  us." 

Madame  du  Gua  replied  to  the  last  words,  which 
were  said  half  aside,  with  a  rather  unceremonious  bow 
that  betrayed  her  annoyance  at  the  beauty  of  the  new- 
comer.    Then   she   said,   in  a  low  voice,  to  her  son : 

7 


98  The   Chouans. 

"  '  Perilous  times,'  '  devotion,'  '  madame/  '  servant  * ! 
that  is  not  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil ;  it  is  some  girl 
sent  here  by  Fouche." 

The  guests  were  about  to  sit  down  when  Mademoi- 
selle de  Verneuil  noticed  Corentin,  who  was  still  em- 
ployed in  a  close  scrutiny  of  the  mother  and  son,  who 
were  showing  some  anno^^ance  at  his  glances. 

"  Citizen,"  she  said  to  him,  "3^ou  are  no  doubt  too 
well  bred  to  dog  my  steps.  The  Republic,  when  it 
sent  my  parents  to  the  scaffold,  did  not  magnani- 
mously provide  me  with  a  guardian.  Though  you  have, 
from  extreme  and  chivalric  gallantr}'  accompanied  me 
against  my  will  to  this  place"  (she  sighed),  "  I  am 
quite  resolved  not  to  allow  your  protecting  care  to 
become  a  burden  to  j^ou.  I  am  safe  now,  and  you 
can  leave  me.'* 

She  gave  him  a  fixed  and  contemptuous  look.  Co- 
rentin understood  her ;  he  repressed  the  smile  which 
almost  curled  the  corners  of  his  wily  lips  as  he  bowed 
to  her  respectfully. 

*'  Citoyenne,"  he  said,  "it  is  always  an  honor  to 
obey  you.  Beauty  is  the  only  queen  a  Republican 
can  serve." 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil's  eyes,  as  she  watched  him 
depart,  shone  with  such  natural  pleasure,  she  looked 
at  Francine  with  a  smile  of  intelligence  which  betrayed 
so  much  real  satisfaction,  that  Madame  du  Gua,  who 
grew  prudent  as  she  grew  jealous,  felt  disposed  to 
relinquish  the  suspicions  which  Mademoiselle  de  Ver- 
neuil's great  beauty  had  forced  into  her  mind. 

*'It  may  be  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  after  all," 
she  whispered  to  her  son. 

"But  that  escort?"  answered  the  young  man,  whose 


The   Chouans.  99 

vexation  at  the  young  lady's  indifference  allowed  him 
to  be  cautious.  ' '  Is  she  a  prisoner  or  an  emissary,  a 
friend  or  an  enemy  of  the  government?" 

Madame  du  Gua  made  a  sign  as  if  to  say  that  she 
would  soon  clear  up  the  myster}'. 

However,  the  departure  of  Corentin  seemed  to  lessen 
the  young  man's  distrust,  and  he  began  to  cast  on 
Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  certain  looks  which  betrayed 
an  immoderate  admiration  for  women,  rather  than  the 
respectful  warmth  of  a  dawning  passion.  The  young 
girl  grew  more  and  more  reserved,  and  gave  all  her 
attentions  to  Madame  du  Gua.  The  youth,  angry 
with  himself,  tried,  in  his  vexation,  to  turn  the  tables 
and  seem  indifferent.  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  ap- 
peared not  to  notice  this  manoeuvre ;  she  continued 
to  be  simple  without  shyness  and  reserved  without 
prudery. 

This  chance  meeting  of  personages  who,  apparently, 
were  not  destined  to  become  intimate,  awakened  no 
agreeable  sympathy  on  either  side.  There  was  even  a 
sort  of  vulgar  embarrassment,  an  awkwardness  which 
destroj'ed  all  the  pleasure  which  Mademoiselle  de  Ver- 
neuil and  the  young  sailor  had  begun  by  expecting. 
But  women  have  such  wonderful  conventional  tact, 
they  are  so  intimately  allied  with  each  other,  or  they 
have  such  keen  desires  for  emotion,  that  they  always 
know  how  to  break  the  ice  on  such  occasions.  Sud- 
denly, as  if  the*  two  beauties  had  the  same  thought, 
they  began  to  tease  their  solitary  knight  in  a  playful 
way,  and  were  soon  vying  with  each  other  in  the 
jesting  attention  which  they  paid  to  him ;  this  unan- 
imity of  action  left  them  free.  At  the  end  of  half 
an  hour,  the  two  women,  alread}'  secret  enemies,  were 


100  The  Chouans. 

apparently  the  best  of  friends.  The  young  man  then 
discovered  that  he  felt  as  angry  with  Mademoiselle  de 
Verneuil  for  her  friendliness  and  freedom  as  he  had 
been  with  her  reserve.  In  fact,  he  was  so  annoj^ed 
by  it  that  he  regretted,  with  a  sort  of  dumb  anger, 
having  allowed  her  to  breakfast  with  them. 

''Madame,"  said  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  ''is 
your  son  always  as  gloonw  as  he  is  at  this  moment?" 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  replied,  "I  ask  myself  what  is 
the  good  of  a  fleeting  happiness.  The  secret  of  my 
gloom  is  the  evanescence  of  my  pleasure." 

"That  is  a  madrigal,"  she  said,  laughing,  "which 
rings  of  the  Court  rather  than  the  Poly  technique." 

"  My  son  only  expressed  a  very  natural  thought, 
mademoiselle,"  said  Madame  du  Gua.  who  had  her  own 
reasons  for  placating  the  stranger. 

"Then  laugh  while  you  may,"  said  Mademoiselle  de 
Verneuil,  smiling  at  the  young  man.  "  How  do  you 
look  when  you  have  really  something  to  weep  for,  if 
what  you  are  pleased  to  call  a  happiness  makes  yod 
so  dismal?  " 

This  smile,  accompanied  by  a  provoking  glance 
which  destroyed  the  consistency  of  her  reserve,  revived 
the  youth's  feelings.  But  inspired  by  her  nature,  which 
often  impels  a  woman  to  do  either  too  much  or  too 
little  under  such  circumstances.  Mademoiselle  de  Ver- 
neuil, having  covered  the  young  man  with  that  brilliant 
look  full  of  love's  promises,  immediately  withdrew 
from  his  answering  expression  into  a  cold  and  severe 
modesty,  —  a  conventional  performance  by  which  a  wo- 
man sometimes  hides  a  true  emotion.  In  a  moment,  a 
single  moment,  when  each  expected  to  see  the  ej'elids 
of  the  other  lowered,  they  had  communicated  to  one 


The   Ohduan^.  .'';.i:'i01 

another  their  real  thoughts  ;  btit 'th^y  uteil^.d'  1;li4^r^,^|ai[ic^8 
as  quicklj'  as  the}'  had  minglfeel'theto'tn  that  one  £ash 
which  convulsed  their  hearts  and  enlightened  them. 
Confused  at  having  said  so  man}^  things  in  a  single 
glance,  the}'  dared  no  longer  look  at  each  other.  Made- 
moiselle de  Verneuil  withdrew  into  cold  politeness,  and 
seemed  to  be  impatient  for  the  conclusion  of  the  meal. 

'^  Mademoiselle,  you  must  have  suffered  very  much 
in  prison  ?  "  said  Madame  du  Gua. 

"  Alas,  madame,  I  sometimes  think  that  I  am  still 
there." 

"Is  your  escort  sent  to  protect  you,  mademoiselle, 
or  to  watch  you?  Are  you  still  suspected  by  the 
Republic?" 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  felt  instinctively  that 
Madame  du  Gua  had  no  real  interest  in  her,  and  the 
question  alarmed  her. 

'*  Madame,"  she  replied,  "I  really  do  not  know 
myself  the  exact  nature  of  my  relations  to  the  Re- 
public." 

''  Perhaps  it  fears  you?"  said  the  young  man,  rather 
satirical  1}'. 

''We  must  respect  her  secrets,"  interposed  Madame 
du  Gua. 

"  Oh,  madame,  the  secrets  of  a  young  girl  who 
knows  nothing  of  life  but  its  misfortunes  are  not 
interesting." 

"But,"  answered  Madame  du  Gua,  wishing  to  con- 
tinue a  conversation  which  might  reveal  to  her  all  that 
she  wanted  to  know,  "  the  First  Consul  seems  to 
have  excellent  intentions.  They  say  that  he  is  going 
to  remove  the  disabilities  of  the  emigres." 

"That  is  true,  madame,"  she  replied,  with  rather  too 


102  .    TM  phouans. 

■  '''   ^*'i^J 
Uj.Ocii  eifcgeFii€9S;,'**and  if  so^  why  do  we  rouse  Brittany 
and  La  Yehdee?'    Why' bring  civil  war  into  France?  " 

This  eager  cry,  in  which  she  seemed  to  share  her 
own  reproach,  made  the  young  sailor  quiver.  He 
looked  earnestly  at  her,  but  was  unable  to  detect  either 
hatred  or  love  upon  her  face.  Her  beautiful  skin,  the 
delicacy  of  which  was  shown  by  the  color  beneath  it, 
was  impenetrable.  A  sudden  and  invincible  curiosity 
attracted  him  to  this  strange  creature,  to  whom  he  was 
already  drawn  b\'  violent  desires. 

"Madame,"  said  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  after  a 
pause,  "  may  I  ask  if  you  are  going  to  Mayenne?  " 

*'  Yes,  mademoiselle,"  replied  the  young  man  with  a 
questioning  look. 

"Then,  raadame,"  she  continued,  "  as  your  son  serves 
the  Republic  "  (she  said  the  words  with  an  apparently 
indifferent  air,  but  she  gave  her  companions  one  of 
those  furtive  glances  the  art  of  which  belongs  to  women 
and  diplomatists),  "  3'ou  must  fear  the  Chouans,  and  an 
escort  is  not  to  be  despised.  We  are  now  almost  travel- 
ling companions,  and  I  hope  you  will  come  with  me  to 
Mayenne." 

Mother  and  son  hesitated,  and  seemed  to  consult  each 
other's  faces. 

''I  am  not  sure,  mademoiselle,"  said  the  j'oung  man, 
''  that  it  is  prudent  in  me  to  tell  you  that  interests  of 
the  highest  importance  require  our  presence  to-night  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Foug^res,  and  we  have  not  yet  been 
able  to  find  a  means  of  conveyance  ;  but  women  are  so 
naturally  generous  that  I  am  ashamed  not  to  confide  in 
you,  Nevertheless,"  he  added,  "  before  putting  our- 
selves in  j'our  hands,  I  ought  to  know  whether  we  shall 
be  able  to  get  out  of  them  safe  and  sound.     In  short. 


The  Chouans.  103 

mademoiselle,  are  you  the  sovereign  or  the  slave  of 
your  Republican  escort?  Pardon  my  frankness,  but 
your  position  does  not  seem  to  me  exactly  natural  —  " 

^^We  live  in  times,  monsieur,  when  nothing  takes 
place  naturally.  You  can  accept  my  proposal  without 
anxiety.  Above  all,"  she  added,  emphasizing  her  words, 
"  3'ou  need  fear  no  treachery  in  an  offer  made  hy  a 
woman  who  has  no  part  in  political  hatreds." 

"  A  journey  thus  made  is  not  without  danger,"  he 
said,  with  a  look  which  gave  significance  to  that  com- 
monplace remark. 

"What  is  it  you  fear?"  she  answered,  smiling  sar- 
casticall3^     "  I  see  no  peril  for  any  one." 

"  Is  this  the  woman  who  a  moment  ago  shared  my 
desires  in  her  eyes? "  thought  the  young  man.  "  What 
a  tone  in  her  voice  !  she  is  laying  a  trap  for  me." 

At  that  instant  the  shrill  cry  of  an  owl  which  ap- 
peared to  have  perched  on  the  chimney  top  vibrated  in 
the  air  like  a  warning. 

"  What  does  that  mean  ?  "  said  Mademoiselle  de  Ver- 
neuil.  "  Our  journey  together  will  not  begin  under 
favorable  auspices.  Do  owls  in  these  parts  screech  by 
daylight  ?  "  she  added,  with  a  surprised  gesture. 

"  Sometimes,"  said  the  young  man,  coolly.  "  Made- 
moiselle," he  continued,  "  we  may  bring  you  ill-luck ; 
you  are  thinking  of  that,  I  am  sure.  We  had  better 
not  travel  together." 

These  words  were  said  with  a  calmness  and  reserve 
which  puzzled  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil. 

"  Monsieur,"  she  replied,  with  truly  aristocratic  in- 
solence, "  I  am  far  from  wishing  to  compel  you.  Pray 
let  us  keep  the  little  liberty  the  Republic  leaves  us.  If 
Madame  were  alone,  I  should  insist  —  " 


104  The   Chouans. 

The  heavy  step  of  a  soldier  was  heard  in  the  passage, 
and  the  Commandant  Hulot  presently  appeared  in  the 
doorway  with  a  frowning  brow. 

"  Come  here,  colonel,"  said  Mademoiselle  de  Ver- 
neiiil,  smiling  and  pointing  to  a  chair  beside  her.  "  Let 
us  talk  over  the  affairs  of  State.  But  what  is  the  mat- 
ter with  you?     Are  there  Chouans  here?  " 

The  commandant  stood  speechless  on  catching  sight 
of  the  3^oung  man,  at  whom  he  looked  with  peculiar 
attention. 

"  Mamma,  will  yon  take  some  more  hare?  Made- 
moiselle, 3^ou  are  not  eating,"  said  the  sailor  to  Francine, 
seeming  busy  with  the  guests. 

But  Hulot's  astonishment  and  Mademoiselle  de  Ver- 
neuil's  close  observation  had  something  too  dangerously 
serious  about  them  to  be  ignored. 

*'  What  is  it,  citizen?  "  said  the  3'oung  man,  abruptly ; 
"  do  3'ou  know  me  ?  " 

''  Perhaps  I  do,"  replied  the  Republican. 

"  You  are  right ;  I  remember  you  at  the  School." 

"  I  never  went  to  any  school, '  said  the  soldier, 
roughly.     "What  school  do  you  mean?" 

"ThePolytechnique." 

"  Ha,  ha,  those  barracks  where  they  expect  to  make 
soldiers  in  dormitories,"  said  the  veteran,  whose  aver- 
sion for  officers  trained  in  that  nursery  was  insurmount- 
able.    "  To  what  arm  do  you  belong  ?  " 

'*  I  am  in  the  navy." 

"Ha!"  cried  Hulot,  smiling  vindictively,  *'how 
many  of  3'our  fellow-students  are  in  the  nav}'  ?  Don't 
3'ou  know,"  he  added  in  a  serious  tone,  *'  that  none  but 
the  artillery  and  the  engineers  graduate  from  there?" 

The  young  man  was  not  disconcerted. 


The   Chouans.  105 

"  An  exception  was  made  in  my  favor,  on  account  of 
the  name  I  bear,"  he  answered.  "  We  are  all  naval 
men  in  our  family." 

"  What  is  the  name  of  your  family,  citizen?  "  asked 
Hulot. 

'*  Du  Gua  Saint-Cyr." 

"  Then  you  were  not  killed  at  Mortagne?  " 

"  He  came  very  near  being  killed,"  said  Madame  du 
Gua,  quickly  ;  "  my  son  received  two  balls  in  —  " 

"Where  are  your  papers?"  asked  Hulot,  not  listen- 
ing to  the  mother. 

"  Do  you  propose  to  read  them  ?  "  said  the  3'Oung 
man,  cavalierly ;  his  blue  eye,  keen  with  suspicion, 
studied  alternately  the  gloomy  face  of  the  command- 
ant and  that  of  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil. 

''  A  stripling  like  you  to  pretend  to  fool  me  !  Come, 
produce  your  papers,  or  —  " 

*'  La !  la  !  citizen,  I'm  not  such  a  babe  as  I  look  to 
be.     Why  should  I  answer  you  ?    Who  are  you  ?  " 

"  The  commander  of  this  department,"  replied  Hulot. 

*'0h,  then,  of  course,  the  matter  is  serious;  I  am 
taken  with  arms  in  my  hand,"  and  he  held  out  a  glass 
full  of  Bordeaux  to  the  soldier. 

''I  am  not  thirsty,"  said  Hulot.  "  Come,  your 
papers." 

At  that  instant  the  rattle  of  arms  and  the  tread  of 
men  was  heard  in  the  street.  Hulot  walked  to  the 
window  and  gave  a  satisfied  look  which  made  Made- 
moiselle de  Verneuil  tremble.  That  sign  of  interest  on 
her  part  seemed  to  fire  the  young  man,  whose  face  had 
grown  cold  and  haughty.  After  feeling  in  the  pockets 
of  his  coat  he  drew  forth  an  elegant  portfolio  and  pre- 
sented  certain   papers  to  the  commandant,  which  the 


106  The  Chouans. 

latter  read  slowly,  comparing  the  description  given  in 
the  passport  with  the  face  and  figure  of  the  young  man 
before  him.  During  this  prolonged  examination  the 
owl's  cry  rose  again ;  but  this  time  there  was  no  diffi- 
culty whatever  in  recognizing  a  human  voice.  The 
commandant  at  once  returned  the  papers  to  the  joung 
man,  with  a  scoflSng  look. 

"  That 's  all  very  fine,"  he  said ;  "  but  I  don't  like 
the  music.     You  will  come  with  me  to  headquarters." 

"  Why  do  you  take  him  there  ?  "  asked  Mademoiselle 
de  Verneuil,  in  a  tone  of  some  excitement. 

"My  good  lady,"  replied  the  commandant,  with  his 
usual  grimace,  "that 's  none  of  your  business." 

Irritated  by  the  tone  and  words  of  the  old  soldier,  but 
still  more  at  the  sort  of  humiliation  oflTered  to  her  in 
presence  of  a  man  who  was  under  the  influence  of  her 
charms.  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  rose,  abandoning  the 
simple  and  modest  manner  she  had  hitherto  adopted ; 
her  cheeks  glowed  and  her  eyes  shone  as  she  said  in  a 
quiet  tone  but  with  a  trembling  voice :  "  Tell  me,  has 
this  young  man  met  all  the  requirements  of  the  law?  " 

"  Yes  —  apparently,"  said  Hulot  ironically. 

"Then,  I  desire  that  you  will  leave  him,  apparently^ 
alone,"  she  said.  ''  Are  3'ou  afraid  he  will  escape  you  ? 
You  are  to  escort  him  with  me  to  Mayenne ;  he  will  be 
in  the  coach  with  his  mother.  Make  no  objection ;  it 
is  my  will  —  Well,  what  ?  "  she  added,  noticing  Hulot's 
grimace  ;  "do  you  suspect  him  still?" 

"Rather." 

"  What  do  3'Ou  want  to  do  with  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing ;  balance  his  head  with  a  little  lead 
perhaps.  He  's  a  giddy-pate  !  "  said  the  commandant, 
ironically-. 


The   Chouans.  107 

"Are  you  joking,  colonel ?"  cried  Mademoiselle  de 
Verneuil. 

"  Come ! "  said  the  commandant,  nodding  to  the 
young  man,  "  make  haste,  let  us  be  off." 

At  tliis  impertinence  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  be- 
came calm  and  smiling. 

"  Do  not  go,"  she  said  to  the  young  man,  protecting 
him  with  a  gesture  that  was  full  of  dignity. 

"  Oh,  what  a  beautiful  head !  "  said  the  youth  to  his 
mother,  who  frowned  heavily. 

Annoyance,  and  man}^  other  sentiments,  aroused 
and  struggled  with,  did  certainly  bring  fresh  beauties 
to  the  young  woman's  face.  Francine,  Madame  du 
Gua,  and  her  son  had  all  risen  from  their  seats. 
Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  hastily  advanced  and  stood 
between  them  and  the  commandant,  who  smiled  amu- 
sedly ;  then  she  rapidly  unfastened  the  frogged  fasten- 
ings of  her  jacket.  Acting  with  that  blindness  which 
often  seizes  women  when  their  self-love  is  threatened 
and  they  are  anxious  to  show  their  power,  as  a  child  is 
impatient  to  play  with  a  toy  that  has  just  been  given  to 
it,  she  took  from  her  bosom  a  paper  and  presented  it 
to  Hulot. 

"Read  that,"  she  said,  with  a  sarcastic  laugh. 

Then  she  turned  to  the  young  man  and  gave  him, 
in  the  excitement  of  her  triumph,  a  look  in  which  mis- 
chief was  mingled  with  an  expression  of  love.  Their 
brows  cleared,  joy  flushed  each  agitated  face,  and  a 
thousand  contradictory  thoughts  rose  in  their  hearts. 
Madame  du  Gua  noted  in  that  one  look  far  more  of  love 
than  of  pity  in  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil's  intervention  ; 
and  she  was  right.  The  handsome  creature  blushed 
beneath   the   other   woman's   gaze,    understanding    its 


108  The  Ohouans. 

meaning,  and  dropped  her  e3'elids ;  then,  as  if  aware  of 
some  threatening  accusation,  she  raised  her  head 
proudly  and  defied  all  eyes.  The  commandant,  petri- 
fied, returned  the  paper,  countersigned  hy  ministers, 
which  enjoined  all  authorities  to  obey  the  orders  of  this 
mysterious  lad3\  Having  done  so,  he  drew  his  sword, ' 
laid  it  across  his  knees,  broke  the  blade,  and  flung  awa}' 
the  pieces. 

'•Mademoiselle,  you  probably  know  what  j^ou  are 
about ;  but  a  Republican  has  his  own  ideas,  and  his 
own  dignity.  I  cannot  serve  where  women  command. 
The  First  Consul  will  receive  my  resignation  to-morrow ; 
others,  who  are  not  of  mj^  stripe,  may  obey  3'ou.  I  do 
not  understand  my  orders  and  therefore  I  stop  short,  — 
all  the  more  because  I  am  supposed  to  understand 
them." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  but  it  was  soon 
broken  by  the  young  lad}',  who  went  up  to  the  com- 
mandant and  held  out  her  hand,  saying,  ''Colonel, 
though  3^our  beard  is  somewhat  long,  you  may  kiss  my 
hand  ;  you  are,  indeed,  a  man !  " 

"  I  flatter  m3^self  I  am,  mademoiselle,"  he  replied, 
depositing  a  kiss  upon  the  hand  of  this  singular  young 
woman  rather  awkwardly.  "  As  for  3'ou,  friend,"  he 
said,  threatening  the  \'oung  man  with  his  finger,  "you 
have  had  a  narrow  escape  this  time." 

"Commandant,"  said  the  youth,  "it  is  time  all  this 
nonsense  should  cease ;  I  am  ready  to  go  with  you,  if 
you  like,  to  headquarters." 

"  And  bring  your  invisible  owl,  Marche-a-Terre ?  " 

"Who  is  Marche-k-Terre ? "  asked  the  young  man, 
with  all  the  signs  of  genuine  surprise. 

"  Did  n't  he  hoot  just  now?" 


The   Ohouans.  109 

''  What  did  that  hooting  have  to  do  with  me,  I 
should  like  to  know  ?  I  supposed  it  was  3'our  soldiers 
letting  you  know  of  their  arrival." 

''  Nonsense,  you  did  not  think  that." 

''  Yes,  I  did.  But  do  drink  that  glass  of  Bordeaux ; 
the  wine  is  good." 

Surprised  at  the  natural  behavior  of  the  youth  and 
also  by  the  frivolity  of  his  manners  and  the  youthfulness 
of  his  face,  made  even  more  juvenile  by  the  careful 
curling  of  his  fair  hair,  the  commandant  hesitated  in  the 
midst  of  his  suspicions.  He  noticed  that  Madame  du 
Gua  was  intently  watching  the  glances  that  her  son 
gave  to  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  and  he  asked  her 
abruptly  :  "  How  old  are  you,  citoyenne?  " 

*'Ah,  Monsieur  Tofficier,"  she  said,  "the  rules  of 
the  Republic  are  very  severe ;  must  I  tell  you  that  I 
am  thirty-eight  ?  " 

"May  I  be  shot  if  I  believe  it!  Marche-a-Terre  is 
here  ;  it  was  he  who  gave  that  cry ;  you  are  Chouans  in 
disguise.  God's  thunder!  I'll  search  the  inn  and 
make  sure  of  it ! " 

Just  then  a  hoot,  somewhat  like  those  that  preceded 
it,  came  from  the  courtyard  ;  the  commandant  rushed 
out,  and  missed  seeing  the  pallor  that  covered  Madame 
du  Gua's  face  as  he  spoke.  Hulot  saw  at  once  that 
the  sound  came  from  a  postilion  harnessing  his  horses 
to  the  coach,  and  he  cast  aside  his  suspicions,  all  the 
more  because  it  seemed  absurd  to  suppose  that  the 
Chouans  would  risk  themselves  in  Alen9on.  He  re- 
turned to  the  house  confounded. 

'*  I  forgive  him  now,  but  later  he  shall  pay  dear  for 
the  anxiety  he  has  given  us,"  said  the  mother  to  the 
son,  in  a  low  voice,  as  Hulot  re-entered  the  room. 


110  The   Chouans. 

The  brave  old  officer  showed  on  his  worried  face  the 
struggle  that  went  on  in  his  mind  betwixt  a  stern  sense 
of  duty  and  the  natural  kindness  of  his  heart.  He  kept 
his  gruff  air,  partlj',  perhaps,  because  he  fancied  he  had 
deceived  himself,  but  he  took  the  glass  of  Bordeaux, 
and  said :  "  Excuse  me,  comrade,  but  your  Poly  tech- 
nique does  send  such  young  officers  —  " 

"  The  Chouans  have  younger  ones,"  said  the  youth, 
laughing. 

"  For  whom  did  you  take  my  son?"  asked  Madame 
du  Gua. 

"  For  the  Gars,  the  leader  sent  to  the  Chouans  and 
the  Vend^ans  hy  the  British  cabinet ;  his  real  name  is 
Marquis  de  Montauran." 

The  commandant  watched  the  faces  of  the  suspected 
pair,  who  looked  at  each  other  with  a  puzzled  expres- 
sion that  seemed  to  say  :  ' '  Do  you  know  that  name  ?  " 
"No,  do  you?"  "What  is  he  talking  about?"  "  He's 
dreaming." 

The  sudden  change  in  the  manner  of  Marie  de 
Verneuil,  and  her  torpor  as  she  heard  the  name  of 
the  royalist  general  was  observed  by  no  one  but  Fran- 
cine,  the  only  person  to  whom  the  least  shade  on  that 
young  face  was  visible.  Completely  routed,  the  com- 
mandant picked  up  the  bits  of  his  broken  sword,  looked 
at  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  whose  ardent  beaut}'  was 
beginning  to  find  its  way  to  his  heart,  and  said  :  "  As 
for  you,  mademoiselle,  I  take  nothing  back,  and  to- 
morrow these  fragments  of  my  sword  will  reach  Bona- 
parte, unless  —  " 

"  Pooh !  what  do  I  care  for  Bonaparte,  or  your  re- 
public, or  the  king,  or  the  Gars?"  she  cried,  scarcely 
repressing  an  explosion  of  ill-bred  temper. 


The  Chouans.  Ill 

A  mysterious  emotion,  the  passion  of  which  gave  to 
her  face  a  dazzling  color,  showed  that  the  whole  world 
was  nothing  to  the  girl  the  moment  that  one  individual 
was  all  in  all  to  her.  But  she  suddenly  subdued 
herself  into  forced  calmness,  observing,  like  a  trained 
actor,  that  the  spectators  were  watching  her.  The 
commandant  rose  hastily  and  went  out.  Anxious 
and  agitated,  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  followed  him, 
stopped  him  in  the  corridor,  and  said,  in  an  almost 
solemn  tone  :  ''  Have  you  any  good  reason  to  suspect 
that  young  man  of  being  the  Gars  ?  " 

''  God's  thunder !  mademoiselle,  that  fellow  who  rode 
here  with  you  came  back  to  warn  me  that  the  trav- 
ellers in  the  mail-coach  had  all  been  murdered  by  the 
Chouans ;  I  knew  that,  but  what  I  did  n't  know  was 
the  name  of  the  murdered  persons,  —  it  was  Gua  de 
Saint-Cyr !  " 

*'  Oh !  if  Corentin  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  this,  nothing 
surprises  me,"  she  cried,  with  a  gesture  of  disgust. 

The  commandant  went  his  way  without  daring  to 
look  at  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  whose  dangerous 
beauty  began  to  affect  him. 

"If  I  had  stayed  two  minutes  longer  I  should  have 
committed  the  folly  of  taking  back  my  sword  and  es- 
corting her,"  he  was  saying  to  himself  as  he  went  down 
the  stairs. 

As  Madame  du  Gua  watched  the  young  man,  whose 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  door  through  which  Mademoi- 
selle de  Verneuil  had  passed,  she  said  to  him  in  a  low 
voice  :  "  You  are  incorrigible.  You  will  perish  through 
a  woman.  A  doll  can  make  you  forget  everything. 
Why  did  you  allow  her  to  breakfast  with  us  ?  Who  is 
a  Demoiselle  de  Verneuil  escorted  by  the  Blues,  wtiQ 


112  The  Chouans. 

accepts  a  breakfast  from  strangers  and  disarms  an  of- 
ficer with  a  paper  hidden  in  the  bosom  of  her  gown  Hke 
a  love-letter?  She  is  one  of  those  contemptible  crea- 
tures by  whose  aid  Fouche  expects  to  lay  hold  of  you, 
and  the  paper  she  showed  the  commandant  ordered  the 
Blues  to  assist  her  against  3'ou." 

"Eh!  madame,"  he  replied  in  a  sharp  tone  which 
went  to  the  lady's  heart  and  turned  her  pale;  "her 
generous  action  disproves  your  supposition.  Praj^  re- 
member that  the  welfare  of  the  king  is  the  sole  bond 
between  us.  You,  who  have  had  Charette  at  your  feet 
must  find  the  world  without  him  empty ;  are  you  not 
living  to  avenge  him  ?  " 

The  lady  stood  still  and  pensive,  like  one  who  sees 
from  the  shore  the  wreck  of  all  her  treasures,  and  only 
the  more  eagerly  longs  for  the  vanished  property. 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  re-entered  the  room;  the 
young  man  exchanged  a  smile  with  her  and  gave  her 
a  glance  full  of  gentle  meaning.  However  uncertain 
the  future  might  seem,  however  ephemeral  their  union, 
the  promises  of  their  sudden  love  were  only  the  more 
endearing  to  them.  Rapid  as  the  glance  was,  it  did  not 
escape  the  sagacious  eye  of  Madame  du  Gua,  who  in- 
stantly understood  it ;  her  brow  clouded,  and  she  was 
unable  to  wholly  conceal  her  jealous  anger.  Francine 
was  observing  her ;  she  saw  the  e\"es  glitter,  the  cheeks 
flush ;  she  thought  she  perceived  a  diabolical  spirit  in 
the  face,  stirred  by  some  sudden  and  terrible  revulsion. 
But  lightning  is  not  more  rapid,  nor  death  more  prompt 
than  this  brief  exhibition  of  inward  emotion.  Madame 
du  Gua  recovered  her  lively  manner  with  such  immedi- 
ate self-possession  that  Francine  fancied  herself  mis- 
taken.    Nevertheless,   having   once   perceived   in  this 


The   Chouans.  113 

woman  a  violence  of  feeling  that  was  fully  equal  to  that 
of  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  she  trembled  as  she  fore- 
saw the  clash  with  which  such  natures  might  come  to- 
gether, and  the  girl  shuddered  when  she  saw  Made- 
moiselle de  Verneuil  go  up  to  the  young  man  with  a 
passionate  look  and,  taking  him  by  the  hand,  draw  him 
close  beside  her  and  into  the  light,  with  a  coquettish 
gesture  that  was  full  of  witchery. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  trying  to  read  his  eyes,  "own  to 
me  that  3'ou  are  not  the  citizen  du  Gua  Saint-CjT." 

''  Yes,  I  am,  mademoiselle." 

"But  he  and  his  mother  were  killed  3'esterday." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  that,"  he  replied,  laughing. 
"  However  that  may  be,  I  am  none  the  less  under  a 
great  obligation  to  you,  for  which  I  shall  always  feel  the 
deepest  gratitude  and  only  wish  I  could  prove  it  to 
you." 

"  I  thought  I  was  saving  an  emigre^  but  I  love  you 
better  as  a  Republican." 

The  words  escaped  her  lips  as  it  were  impulsively ; 
she  became  confused ;  even  her  eyes  blushed,  and  her 
face  bore  no  other  expression  than  one  of  exquisite  sim- 
plicity of  feeling ;  she  softly  released  the  young  man's 
hand,  not  from  shame  at  having  pressed  it,  but  because 
of  a  thought  too  weighty,  it  seemed,  for  her  heart  to 
bear,  leaving  him  drunk  with  hope.  Suddenly  she  ap- 
peared to  regret  this  freedom,  permissible  as  it  might 
be  under  the  passing  circumstances  of  a  journe3\  She 
recovered  her  conventional  manner,  bowed  to  the  lady 
and  her  son,  and  taking  Francine  with  her,  left  the 
room.  When  they  reached  their  own  chamber  Francine 
wrung  her  hands  and  tossed  her  arms,  as  she  looked  at 
her  mistress,  saying :     "  Ah,  Marie,  what  a  crowd  of 


114  The  Chouans. 

things  in  a  moment  of  time !  who  but  you  would  have 
such  adventures  ?  " 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  sprang  forward  and  clasped 
Francine  round  the  neck. 

"  Ah  !  this  is  life  indeed  —  I  am  in  heaven !  " 

"  Or  hell,"  retorted  Francine. 

"  Yes,  hell  if  jou  like  !  "  cried  Mademoiselle  de  Ver- 
neuil. "  Here,  give  me  your  hand ;  feel  my  heai't,  how 
it  beats.  There  's  fever  in  my  veins  ;  the  whole  world 
is  now  a  mere  nothing  to  me  !  How  man}-  times  have 
I  not  seen  that  man  in  my  dreams  !  Oh !  how  beauti- 
ful his  head  is  —  how  his  eyes  sparkle  !  " 

"  Will  he  love  you?  "  said  the  simple  peasant-woman, 
in  a  quivering  voice,  her  face  full  of  sad  foreboding. 

"  How  can  3'ou  ask  me  that !  "  cried  Mademoiselle  de 
Verneuil.  "  But,  Francine,  tell  me,"  she  added  throw- 
ing herself  into  a  pose  that  was  half  serious,  half  comic, 
"  will  it  be  very  hard  to  love  me?  " 

"No,  but  will  he  love  you  alwaj^s?"  replied  Fran- 
cine, smiling. 

They  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment  speechless, 
—  Francine  at  reveaUng  so  much  knowledge  of  life, 
and  Marie  at  the  perception,  which  now  came  to  her 
for  the  first  time,  of  a  future  of  happiness  in  her  pas- 
sion. She  seemed  to  herself  hanging  over  a  gulf  of 
which  she  had  wanted  to  know  the  depth,  and  listening 
to  the  fall  of  the  stone  she  had  flung,  at  first  heedlessly, 
into  it. 

"Well,  it  is  my  own  affair,"  she  said,  with  the  ges- 
ture of  a  gambler.  "  I  should  never  pity  a  betrayed 
woman ;  she  has  no  one  but  herself  to  blame  if  she  is 
abandoned.  I  shall  know  how  to  keep,  either  living  or 
dead,  the  man  whose  heart  has  once  been  mine.     But," 


The   Chouans.  115 

she  added,  with  some  surprise  and  after  a  moment's 
silence,  ' '  where  did  you  get  j'our  knowledge  of  love, 
Francine?" 

"Mademoiselle/^  said  the  peasant- woman,  hastily, 
"  hush,  I  hear  steps  in  the  passage." 

"Ah!  not  Ai5  steps!"  said  Marie,  listening.  "But 
you  are  evading  an  answer ;  well,  well,  I  '11  wait  for  it, 
or  guess  it." 

Francine  was  right,  however.  Three  taps  on  the 
door  interrupted  the  conversation.  Captain  Merle  ap- 
peared, after  receiving  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil's 
permission  to   enter. 

With  a  military  salute  to  the  lad3",  whose  beauty 
dazzled  him,  the  soldier  ventured  on  giving  her  a 
glance,  but  he  found  nothing  better  to  say  than : 
''  Mademoiselle,   I   am   at  your  orders." 

''  Then  you  are  to  be  my  protector,  in  place  of  the 
commander,  who  retires;   is  that  so?" 

**No,  my  superior  is  the  adjutant-major  Gerard, 
who  has  sent  me  here." 

*'Your  commandant  must  be  very  much  afraid  of 
me,"  she  said. 

**Beg  pardon,  mademoiselle,  Hulot  is  afraid  of 
nothing.  But  women,  you  see,  are  not  in  his  line ; 
it  ruffled  him  to  have  a  general  in  a  mob-cap." 

"  And  yet,"  continued  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil, 
"it  was  his  duty  to  obey  his  superiors.  I  like  sub- 
ordination, and  I  warn  you  that  I  shall  allow  no  one 
to  disobey  me." 

*'  That  would  be  difficult,"  replied  Merle,  gallantly. 

"Let  us  consult,"  said  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil. 
"You  can  get  fresh  troops  here  and  accompany  me 
to  Mayenne,  which  I  must  reach  this  evening.     Shall 


116  The   Chouans. 

we  find  other  soldiers  there,  so  that  I  might  go  on  at 
once,  without  stopping  at  Majenne?  The  Chouans  are 
quite  ignorant  of  our  little  expedition.  If  we  travel 
at  night,  we  can  avoid  meeting  any  number  of  them, 
and  so  escape  an  attack.     Do  you  think  this  feasible  ?  " 

*'  Yes,  mademoiselle." 

"What  sort  of  road  is  it  between  Maj'enne  and 
Fougeres  ?  " 

*'  Rough  ;  all  up  and  down,  a  regular  squirrel- wheel." 

"  Well,  let  us  start  at  once.  As  we  have  nothing  to 
fear  near  Alengon,  you  can  go  before  me ;  we  '11  join 
3^ou  soon." 

"One  would  think  she  had  seen  ten  3^ears'  service," 
thought  Merle,  as  he  departed.  *'Hulot  is  mistaken; 
that  young  girl  is  not  earning  her  living  out  of  a 
feather-bed.  Ten  thousand  cartridges !  if  I  want  to 
be  adjutant-major  I  must  n't  be  such  a  fool  as  to 
mistake   Saint-Michael   for   the   devil." 

During  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil's  conference  with 
the  captain,  Francine  had  slipped  out  for  the  purpose 
of  examining,  through  a  window  of  the  corridor,  the 
spot  in  the  courtyard  which  had  excited  her  curiosit}^ 
on  arriving  at  the  inn.  She  watched  the  stable  and 
the  heaps  of  straw  with  the  absorption  of  one  who  was 
saying  her  prayers  to  the  Virgin,  and  she  presently  saw 
Madame  du  Gua  approaching  Marche-a-Terre  with  the 
precaution  of  a  cat  that  dislikes  to  wet  its  feet.  When 
the  Chouan  caught  sight  of  the  lady,  he  rose  and  stood 
before  her  in  an  attitude  of  deep  respect.  This  singular 
\  circumstance  roused  Francine's  curiosity ;  she  slipped 
I  into  the  courtyard  and  aloYig  the  walls,  avoiding 
Madame  du  Gua's  notice,  and  trying  to  hide  herself 
behind  the  stable  door.     She  walked  on  tiptoe,  scarcely 


The   Chouans.  117 

daring  to  breathe,  and   succeeded   in   posting   herself 
close  to  Marche-k-Terre,  without  exciting  his  attention.      J 

"If,  after  all  this  information,''  the  ladj'  was  saying 
to  the  Chouan,  ''  it  proves  not  to  be  her  real  name,  you 
are  to  fire  upon  her  without  pity,  as  you  would  on  a 
mad  dog." 

"  Agreed  !  "  said  Marche-k-Terre. 

The  lady  left  him.  The  Chouan  replaced  his  red 
woollen  cap  upon  his  head,  remained  standing,  and 
was  scratching  his  ear  as  if  puzzled  when  Francine 
suddenly  appeared  before  him,  apparently  by  magic. 

"  Saint  Anne  of  Auray  !  "  he  exclaimed.  Then  he 
dropped  his  whip,  clasped  his  hands,  and  stood  as  if  in 
ecstasy.  A  faint  color  illuminated  his  coarse  face,  and 
his  eyes  shon%  like  diamonds  dropped  on  a  muck-heap. 
"  Is  it  really  the  brave  girl  from  Cottin?"  he  muttered, 
in  a  voice  so  smothered  that  he  alone  heard  it.  "  You 
are  fine,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  using  the  curious 
word,  "godaine,"  a  superlative  in  the  dialect  of  those 
regions  used  by  lovers  to  express  the  combination  of 
fine  clothes  and  beauty. 

"I  daren't  touch  you,"  added  Marche-a-Terre, 
putting  out  his  big  hand  nevertheless,  as  if  to  weigh 
the  gold  chain  which  hung  round  her  neck  and  below 
her  waist. 

"You  had  better  not,  Pierre,"  replied  Francine, 
inspired  by  the  instinct  which  makes  a  woman  despotic 
when  not  oppressed.  She  drew  back  haugiitily,  after 
enjoying  the  Chouan's  surprise ;  but  she  compensated 
for  the  harshness  of  her  words  by  the  softness  of  her 
glance,  saying,  as  she  once  more  approached  him : 
••Pierre,  that  lady  was  talking  to  you  about  my  3'oung 
mistress,  wasn't  she?" 


118  The    Chouans. 

Marche-a-Terre  was  silent ;  his  face  struggled,  like 
the  dawn,  between  clouds  and  light.  He  looked  in 
turn  at  Francine,  at  the  whip  he  had  dropped,  and  at 
the  chain,  which  seemed  to  have  as  powerful  an  attract- 
tion  for  him  as  the  Breton  girl  herself.  Then,  as  if  to 
put  a  stop  to  his  own  uneasiness,  he  picked  up  his  whip 
and  still  kept  silence. 

"  Well,  it  is  easy  to  see  that  that  lady  told  30U  to 
kill  my  mistress,"  resumed  Francine,  who  knew  the 
faithful  discretion  of  the  peasant,  and  wished  to  relieve 
his  scruples. 

Marche-a-Terre  lowered  his  head  significantly.  To 
the  Cottiu  girl  that  was  answer  enough. 

"Very  good,  Pierre,"  she  said  ;  "  if  any  evil  happens 
to  her,  if  a  hair  of  her  head  is  injured,  j'ou  and  I  will 
have  seen  each  other  for  the  last  time  ;  for  I  shall  be  in 
heaven,  and  you  will  go  to  hell." 

The  possessed  of  devils  whom  the  Church  in  for- 
mer days  used  to  exorcise  with  great  pomp  were  not 
more  shaken  and  agitated  than  Marche-a-Terre  at  this 
prophecy,  uttered  with  a  conviction  which  gave  it 
certainty.  His  glance,  which  at  first  had  a  character 
of  savage  tenderness,  counteracted  by  a  fanaticism  as 
powerful  in  his  soul  as  love,  suddenly  became  surly,  as 
he  felt  the  imperious  manner  of  the  girl  he  had  long 
since  chosen.  Francine  interpreted  his  silence  in  her 
own  way. 

"  Won't  you  do  anything  for  mj'  sake?"  she  said  in 
a  tone  of  reproach. 

At  these  words  the  Chouan  cast  a  glance  at  his  mis- 
tress from  eyes  that  were  black  as  a  crow's  wing. 

"  Are  you  free  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  growl  that  Francine 
alone  could  have  understood. 


The   Chouans.  119 

"  Should  I  be  here  if  I  were  not?  "  she  replied,  indig- 
nantly. "But  you,  what  are  3'ou  doing  here?  Still 
playing  bandit,  still  roaming  the  country  like  a  mad  dog 
wanting  to  bite.  Oh !  Pierre,  if  you  were  wise  you 
would  come  with  me.  This  beautiful  young  lady,  who, 
I  ought  to  tell  you,  was  nursed  when  a  baby  in  our 
home,  has  taken  care  of  me.  I  have  two  hundred  francs 
a  3'ear  from  a  good  investment.  And  Mademoiselle  has 
bought  me  my  uncle  Thomas's  big  house  for  fifteen  hun- 
dred francs,  and  I  have  saved  two  thousand  beside." 

But  her  smiles  and  the  announcement  of  her  wealth 
fell  dead  before  the  dogged  immovability  of  the  Chouan. 

*'  The  priests  have  told  us  to  go  to  war,''  he  replied. 
'*  Ever}^  Blue  we  shoot  earns  one  indulgence." 

"  But  suppose  the  Blues  shoot  you?  " 

He  answered  b}^  letting  his  arms  drop  at  his  sides,  as 
if  regretting  the  poverty  of  the  oflfering  he  should  thus 
make  to  God  and  the  king. 

"What  will  become  of  me?"  exclaimed  the  young 
girl,  sorrowfully. 

Marche-a-Terre  looked  at  her  stupidly ;  his  eyes 
seemed  to  enlarge  ;  tears  rolled  down  his  hairy  cheeks 
upon  the  goatskin  which  covered  him,  and  a  low  moan 
came  from  his  breast. 

' '  Saint  Anne  of  Auray  !  —  Pierre,  is  this  all  you 
have  to  say  to  me  after  a  parting  of  seven  years  ?  You 
have  changed  indeed." 

"  I  love  3'ou  the  same  as  ever,"  said  the  Chouan,  in  a 
a  gruff  voice. 

"No,"  she  whispered,  "  the  kingis  first." 

"  If  you  look  at  me  like  that  I  shall  go,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  then,  adieu,"  she  replied,  sadly. 

"  Adieu,"  he  repeated. 


120  The   Chouans. 

He  seized  her  hand,  wrung  it,  kissed  it,  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross,  and  rushed  into  the  stable,  like  a  dog 
who  fears  that  his  bone  will  be  taken  from  him. 

'' Pille-Miche,"  he  said  to  his  comrade.  "Where's 
your  tobacco-box  ?  ^' 

"  Ho  !  sacre  bleu/  what  a  fine  chain  ! "  cried  Pille-Miche, 
fumbling  in  a  pocket  constructed  in  his  goatskin. 

Then  he  held  out  to  Marche-a-Terre  the  little  horn  in 
which  Bretons  put  the  finel}^  powdered  tobacco  which 
the}'  prepare  themselves  during  the  long  winter  nights. 
The  Chouan  raised  his  thumb  and  made  a  hollow  in 
the  palm  of  his  hand,  after  the  manner  in  which  an 
*'  Invalide"  takes  his  tobacco  ;  then  he  shook  the  horn, 
the  small  end  of  which  Pille-Miche  had  unscrewed.  A 
fine  powder  fell  slowh'  from  the  little  hole  pierced  in 
the  point  of  this  Breton  utensil.  Marche-a-Terre  went 
through  the  same  process  seven  or  eight  times  silentlj^  as 
if  the  powder  had  power  to  change  the  current  of  his 
thoughts.  Suddenly  he  flung  the  horn  to  Pille-Miche 
with  a  gesture  of  despair,  and  caught  up  a  gun  which 
was  hidden  in  the  straw. 

*'  Seven  or  eight  shakes  at  once!  I  suppose  you  think 
that  costs  nothing !  "  said  the  stingy  Pille-Miche. 

"  Forward!  *'  cried  Marche-a-Terre  in  a  hoarse  voice. 
''  There 's  work  before  us." 

Thirty  or  more  Chouans  who  were  sleeping  in  the 
straw  under  the  mangers,  raised  their  heads,  saw 
Marche-a-Terre  on  his  feet,  and  disappeared  instantly 
through  a  door  which  led  to  the  garden,  from  which  it 
was  eas}'  to  reach  the  fields. 

When  Francine  left  the  stable  she  found  the  mail- 
coach  ready  to  start.  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  and 
her  new  fellow-travellers  were  already  in  it.     The  girl 


The   Chouans.  121 

shuddered  as  she  saw  her  young  mistress  sitting  side 
by  side  with  the  woman  who  had  just  ordered  her  death. 
The  young  man  had  taken  his  seat  facing  Marie,  and  as 
soon  as  Francine  was  in  hers  the  heavy  vehicle  started 
*  at  a  good  pace. 

The  sun  had  swept  away  the  gray  autumnal  mists, 
and  its  rays  were  brightening  the  gloomy  landscape 
with  a  look  of  youth  and  holiday.  Many  lovers  fancy 
that  such  chance  accidents  of  the  sky  are  premonitions. 
Francine  was  surprised  at  the  strange  silence  which  fell 
upon  the  travellers.  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  had  re- 
covered her  cold  manner,  and  sat  with  her  eyes  lowered, 
her  head  slightly  inclined,  and  her  hands  hidden  under 
a  sort  of  mantle  in  which  she  had  wrapped  herself.  If 
she  raised  her  eyes  it  was  only  to  look  at  the  passing 
scenery.  Certain  of  being  admired,  she  rejected  admi- 
ration ;  but  her  apparent  indifference  was  evidently 
more  coquettish  than  natural  Purity,  which  gives  such 
harmony  to  the  diverse  expressions  by  which  a  simple 
soul  reveals  itself,  could  lend  no  charm  to  a  being  whose 
every  instinct  predestined  her  to  the  storms  of  passion. 
Yielding  himself  up  to  the  pleasures  of  this  dawning  in- 
trigue, the  young  man  did  not  try  to  explain  the  contra- 
dictions which  were  obvious  between  the  coquetry  and 
the  enthusiasm  of  this  singular  young  girl.  Her  as- 
sumed indifference  allowed  him  to  examine  at  his  ease 
a  face  which  was  now  as  beautiful  in  its  calmness  as  it 
had  been  when  agitated.  Like  the  rest  of  us,  he  was 
not  disposed  to  question  the  sources  of  his  enjoyment. 

It  is  difficult  for  a  pretty  woman  to  avoid  the  glances 
of  her  companions  in  a  carriage  when  their  eyes  fasten 
upon  her  as  a  visible  distraction  to  the  monotony  of  a 
journey.     Happy,  therefore,  in  being  able  to  satisfy  the 


122  The  Chouans. 

hunger  of  his  dawning  passion,  without  offence  or  avoid- 
ance on  the  part  of  its  object,  the  young  man  studied 
_the  pure  and  brilliant  hues  of  the  girl's  head  and  face. 
To  him  they  were  a  picture.  Sometimes  the  light 
brought  out  the  transparent  rose  of  the  nostrils  and  the 
double  curve  which  united  the  nose  with  the  upper  lip ; 
at  other  times  a  pale  glint  of  sunshine  illuminated  the 
tints  of  the  skin,  pearly  beneath  the  e3'es  and  round  the 
mouth,  rosy  on  the  cheeks,  and  ivory-white  about  the 
temples  and  throat.  He  admired  the  contrasts  of  light 
and  shade  caused  bj-  the  masses  of  black  hair  surround- 
ing her  face  and  giving  it  an  ephemeral  grace,  —  for  all 
is  fleeting  in  a  woman  ;  her  beauty  of  to-day  is  often 
not  that  of  yesterday,  fortunately  for  herself,  perhaps  ! 
The  young  man,  who  was  still  at  an  age  when  youth 
delights  in  the  nothings  which  are  the  all  of  love, 
watched  eagerly  for  each  movement  of  the  eyelids,  and 
the  seductive  rise  and  fall  of  her  bosom  as  she  breathed. 
Sometimes  he  fancied,  suiting  the  tenor  of  his  thoughts, 
that  he  could  see  a  meaning  in  the  expression  of  the 
ej-es  and  the  imperceptible  inflection  of  the  lips.  Ever}^ 
gesture  betrayed  to  him  the  soul,  every  motion  a  new 
aspect  of  the  young  girl.  If  a  thought  stirred  those 
mobile  features,  if  a  sudden  blush  suffused  the  cheeks, 
or  a  smile  brought  life  into  the  face,  he  found  a  fresh 
delight  in  trying  to  discover  the  secrets  of  this  myste- 
rious creature.  Everything  about  her  was  a  snare  to 
the  soul  and  a  snare  to  the  senses.  Even  the  silence 
that  fell  between  them,  far  from  raising  an  obstacle  to 
the  understanding  of  their  hearts,  became  the  common 
ground  for  mutual  thoughts.  But  after  a  while  the 
many  looks  in  which  their  eyes  encountered  each  other 
warned  Marie  de  Verneuil  that  the  silence  was  com- 


The  Ohouans.  123 

promising  her,  and  she  turned  to  Madame  du  Gua  with 
one  of  those  commonplace  remarks  which  open  the 
way  to  conversation  ;  but  even  in  so  doing  she  included 
the  young  man. 

'^  Madame,"  she  said,  "how  could  you  put  your 
son  into  the  navy?  have  you  not  doomed  yourself  to 
perpetual  anxiety  ?  " 

"  Madenioiselle,  the  fate  of  women,  of  mothers  I 
should  say,  is  to  tremble  for  the  safety  of  their  dear 
ones." 

"  Your  son  is  very  hke  you." 

"  Do  you  think  so,  mademoiselle?" 

The  smile  with  which  the  young  man  listened  to 
these  remarks  increased  the  vexation  of  his  pretended 
mother.  Her  hatred  grew  with  every  passionate  glance 
he  turned  on  Marie.  Silence  or  conversation,  all  in- 
creased the  dreadful  wrath  which  she  carefully  concealed 
beneath  a  cordial  manner. 

.  "Mademoiselle,"  said  the  young  man,  "you  are 
quite  mistaken.  Naval  men  are  not  more  exposed  to 
danger  than  soldiers.  Women  ought  not  to  dislike  the 
navy ;  we  sailors  have  a  merit  beyond  that  of  the 
military,  —  we   are   faithful   to   our   mistresses." 

"  Oh,  from  necessity,"  replied  Mademoiselle  de  Ver- 
neuil,  laughing. 

"But  even  so,  it  is  fidelity,"  said  Madame  du  Gua, 
in  a  deep  voice. 

The  conversation  grew  lively,  touching  upon  subjects 
that  were  interesting  to  none  but  the  three  travellers, 
for  under  such  circumstances  intelligent  persons  give 
new  meanings  to  commonplace  talk ;  but  every  word, 
insignificant  as  it  might  seem,  was  a  mutual  interroga- 
tion, hiding   the   desires,    hopes,  and   passions   which 


124  The   Chouans, 

agitated  them.  Marie's  cleverness  and  quick  percep- 
tions (for  she  was  fully  on  her  guard)  showed  Madame 
du  Gua  that  calumny  and  treachery  could  alone  avail 
to  triumph  over  a  rival  as  formidable  through  her  intel- 
lect as  by  her  beauty.  The  mail-coach  presently  over- 
took the  escort,  and  then  advanced  more  slowly.  The 
young  man,  seeing  a  long  hill  before  them,  proposed  to 
the  young  lady  that  they  should  walk.  The  friendly 
politeness  of  his  offer  decided  her,  and  her  consent 
flattered   him. 

"Is  Madame  of  our  opinion?"  she  said,  turning  to 
Madame  du  Gua.     "  Will  she  walk,  too?" 

' '  Coquette  !  "  said  the  lady  to  herself,  as  she  left  the 
coach. 

Marie  and  the  young  man  walked  together,  but  a 
little  apart.  The  sailor,  full  of  ardent  desires,  was 
determined  to  break  the  reserve  that  checked  him,  of 
which,  however,  he  was  not  the  dupe.  He  fancied  he 
could  succeed  by  dallying  with  the  j^oung  lady  in  that 
tone  of  courteous  amiability  and  wit,  sometimes  frivo- 
lous, sometimes  serious,  always  chivalric  and  occasion- 
ally satirical,  which  characterized  the  men  of  the  exiled 
aristocracy.  But  the  smiling  Parisian  beauty  parried 
him  so  mischievously,  and  rejected  his  frivolities  with 
such  disdain,  evidently  preferring  the  stronger  ideas 
and  enthusiasms  which  he  betrayed  from  time  to  time 
in  spite  of  himself,  that  he  presently  began  to  un- 
derstand the  true  way  of  pleasing  her.  The  con- 
versation then  changed.  He  realized  the  hopes  her 
expressive  face  had  given  him  ;  yet,  as  he  did  so,  new 
difficulties  arose,  and  he  was  still  forced  to  suspend 
his  judgment  on  a  girl  who  seemed  to  take  delight  in 
thwarting  him,  a  siren   with  whom  he  grew  more  and 


The   Ohouans.  126 

more  in  love.  After  3'ielding  to  the  seduction  of  her 
beaut}^  he  was  still  more  attracted  to  her  mysterious 
soul,  with  a  curiosit}^  which  Marie  perceived  and  took 
pleasure  in  exciting.  Their  intercourse  assumed,  in- 
sensibly, a  character  of  intimacy  far  removed  from  the 
tone  of  indifference  which  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil 
endeavored   in   vain   to   give   to   it. 

Though  Madame  du  Gua  had  followed  the  lovers,  the 
latter  had  unconsciously'  walked  so  much  more  rapidly 
than  she  that  a  distance  of  several  hundred  feet  soon 
separated  them.  The  charming  pair  trod  the  fine  sand 
beneath  their  feet,  listening  with  childlike  delight  to  the 
union  of  their  footsteps,  happy  in  being  wrapped  by  the 
same  ray  of  a  sunshine  that  seemed  spring-like,  in 
breathing  with  the  same  breath  autumnal  perfumes 
laden  with  vegetable  odors  which  seemed  a  nourish- 
ment brought  by  the  breezes  to  their  dawning  love. 
Though  to  them  it  may  have  been  a  mere  circum- 
stance of  their  fortuitous  meeting,  yet  the  sky,  the 
landscape,  the  season  of  the  year,  did  communicate 
to  their  emotions  a  tinge  of  melancholy  gravity  which 
gave  them  an  element  of  passion.  They  praised  the 
weather  and  talked  of  its  beauty  ;  then  of  their  strange 
encounter,  of  the  coming  rupture  of  an  intercourse  so 
delightful ;  of  the  ease  with  which,  in  travelling,  friend- 
ships, lost  as  soon  as  made,  are  formed.  After  this 
last  remark,  the  young  man  profited  by  what  seemed  to 
be  a  tacit  permission  to  make  a  few  tender  confidences, 
and  to  risk  an  avowal  of  love  like  a  man  who  was  not 
unaccustomed  to  such  situations. 

"Have  you  noticed,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "how 
little  the  feelings  of  the  heart  follow  the  old  conven- 
tional  rules  in  the  days  of  terror  in  which  we   live? 


126  The   Chouans. 

Everything  about  us  bears  the  stamp  of  suddenness. 
We  love  in  a  day,  or  we  hate  on  the  strength  of  a  single 
glance.  We  are  bound  to  each  other  for  life  in  a  mo- 
ment, or  we  part  with  the  celerity  ©f  death  itself  All 
things  are  hurried,  like  the  convulsions  of  the  nation.  In 
the  midst  of  such  dangers  as  cuirs  the  ties  that  bind 
should  be  stronger  than  under  the  ordinary  course  of 
life.  In  Paris  during  the  Terror,  every  one  came  to 
know  the  full  meaning  of  a  clasp  of  the  hand  as  men 
do  on  a  battle-field." 

"  People  felt  the  necessity  of  living  fast  and  ar- 
dentl}',"  she  answered,  "for  the}'  had  little  time  to  live." 
Then,  with  a  glance  at  her  companion  which  seemed  to 
tell  him  that  the  end  of  their  short  intercourse  was  ap- 
proaching, she  added,  maliciousl}- :  "  You  are  ver}'  well 
informed  as  to  the  affairs  of  life,  for  a  young  man  who 
has  just  left  the  Ecole  Poly  technique !  " 

"  What  are  3'ou  thinking  of  me?  "  he  said  after  a  mo- 
ment's silence.     ' '  Tell  me  frankly,  without  disguise." 

"  You  wish  to  acquire  the  right  to  speak  to  me  of 
myself,"  she  said  laughing. 

*' You  do  not  answer  me,"  he  went  on  after  a  slight 
pause.     "  Take  care,  silence  is  sometimes  significant." 

"  Do  you  think  I  cannot  guess  all  that  you  would 
like  to  say  to  me  ?  Good  heavens  !  you  have  already 
said  enough." 

••'  Oh,  if  we  understand  each  other,"  he  replied, 
smiling,  "  I  have  obtained  even  more  than  I  dared 
hope  for." 

She  smiled  in  return  so  graciously  that  she  seemed  to 
accept  the  courteous  struggle  into  which  all  men  like  to 
draw  a  woman.  They  persuaded  themselves,  half  in  jest, 
half  in  earnest,  that  they  never  could  be  more  to  each 


The   Chouans.  127 

other  than  they  were  at  that  moment.  The  young  man 
fancied,  therefore,  he  might  give  reins  to  a  passion  that 
could  have  no  future ;  the  young  woman  felt  she  might 
smile  upon  it.  Marie  suddenly  struck  her  foot  against 
a  stone  and  stumbled. 

''  Take  my  arm,"  said  her  companion. 

*'  It  seems  I  must,"  she  replied ;  "  you  would  be  too 
proud  if  I  refused  ;  j-ou  would  fancy  I  feared  you." 

"Ah,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  pressing  her  arm 
against  his  heart  that  she  might  feel  the  beating  of  it, 
"  you  flatter  my  pride  by  granting  such  a  favor." 

"  Well,  the  readiness  with  which  I  do  so  will  cure 
your  illusions." 

*'  Do  you  wish  to  save  me  from  the  danger  of  the 
emotions  you  cause  ?  " 

"  Stop,  stop  !  "  she  cried  ;  "  do  not  try  to  entangle  me 
in  such  boudoir  riddles.  I  don't  like  to  find  the  wit  of 
fools  in  a  man  of  your  character.  See!  here  we  are  be- 
neath the  glorious  sky,  in  the  open  country  ;  before  us, 
above  us,  all  is  grand.  You  wish  to  tell  me  that  I  am 
beautiful,  do  you  not?  Well,  your  eyes  have  already 
told  me  so ;  besides,  I  know  it ;  I  am  not  a  woman 
whom  mere  compliments  can  please.  But  perhaps  you 
would  like,"  this  with  satirical  emphasis,  "  to  talk 
about  your  sentiments  f  Do  you  think  me  so  simple  as 
to  believe  that  sudden  sympathies  are  powerful  enough 
to  influence  a  whole  life  through  the  recollections  of  one 
morning?" 

"  Not  the  recollections  of  a  morning,"  he  said,  "  but 
those  of  a  beautiful  woman  who  has  shown  herself 
generous." 

"  You  forget,"  she  retorted,  laughing,  "half  my  at- 
tractions, —  a  mysterious  woman,  with  everything  odd 


128  The   Chouans, 

about  her,  name,  rank,  situation,  freedom  of  thought 
and  manners." 

*'  You  are  not  mysterious  to  me!  "  he  exclaimed,  "  I 
have  fathomed  you  ;  there  is  nothing  that  could  be 
added  to  your  perfections  except  a  little  more  faith  in 
the  love  you  inspire." 

"  Ah,  my  poor  child  of  eighteen,  what  can  you  know 
of  love?  "  she  said  smiUng.  "  Well,  well,  so  be  it!  "  she 
added,  "it  is  a  fair  subject  of  conversation,  like  the 
weather  when  one  pays  a  visit.  You  shall  find  that 
I  have  neither  false  modesty  nor  petty  fears.  I  can 
hear  the  word  love  without  blushing ;  it  has  been  so 
often  said  to  me  without  one  echo  of  the  heart  that  I 
think  it  quite  unmeaning.  I  have  met  with  it  everj*- 
where,  in  books,  at  the  theatre,  in  society,  —  yes,  every- 
where, and  never  have  I  found  in  it  even  a  semblance 
of  its  magnificent  ideal." 

"  Did  you  seek  that  ideal  ?  " 

"Yes." 

The  word  was  said  with  such  perfect  ease  and  free- 
dom that  the  young  man  made  a  gesture  of  surprise  and 
looked  at  Marie  fixedly,  as  if  he  had  suddenly  changed 
his  opinion  on  her  character  and  real  position. 

''  Mademoiselle,"  he  said  with  ill-concealed  emotion, 
"  are  you  maid  or  wife,  angel  or  devil?  " 

"All,"  she  replied,  laughing.  "Isn't  there  some- 
thing diabolic  and  also  angelic  in  a  young  girl  who  has 
never  loved,  does  not  love,  and  perhaps  will  never 
love?" 

"  Do  you  think  yourself  happy  thus?"  he  asked  with 
a  free  and  easj*^  tone  and  manner,  as  though  already  he 
felt  less  respect  for  her 

"  Oh,  happy,  no,"  she  replied.     "  When  I  think  that 


The   Chouans.  129 

I  am  alone,  hampered  b}^  social  conventions  that  make 
me  deceitful,  I  envy  the  privileges  of  a  man.  But  when 
I  also  reflect  on  the  means  which  nature  has  bestowed 
on  us  women  to  catch  and  entangle  30U  men  in  the  in- 
visible meshes  of  a  power  which  you  cannot  resist,  then 
the  part  assigned  me  in  the  world  is  not  displeas- 
ing to  me.  And  then  again,  suddenly,  it  does  seem 
very  petty,  and  I  feel  that  I  should  despise  a  man  who 
allowed  himself  to  be  duped  by  such  vulgar  seductions. 
No  sooner  do  I  perceive  our  power  and  like  it,  than  I 
know  it  to  be  horrible  and  I  abhor  it.  Sometimes  I 
feel  within  me  that  longing  towards  devotion  which 
makes  my  sex  so  nobly  beautiful;  and  then  I  feel  a 
desire,  which  consumes  me,  for  dominion  and  power. 
Perhaps  it  is  the  natural  struggle  of  the  good  and  the 
evil  principle  in  which  all  creatures  live  here  below. 
Angel  or  devil!  j^ou  have  expressed  it.  Ah!  to-day  is 
not  the  first  time  that  I  have  recognized  my  double 
nature.  But  we  women  understand  better  than  you 
men  can  do  our  own  shortcomings.  We  have  an  in- 
stinct which  shows  us  a  perfection  in  all  things  to 
which,  nevertheless,  we  fail  to  attain.  But,"  she 
added,  sighing  as  she  glanced  at  the  sky  ;  "  that  which 
enhances  us  in  your  eyes  is  —  " 

"Is  what?  "  he  said. 

"  —  that  we  are  all  struggling,  more  or  less,"  she 
answered,  "  against  a  thwarted  destiny." 

"Mademoiselle,  why  should  we  part  to-night?" 

*'Ah!"  she  replied,  smiling  at  the  passionate  look 
which  he  gave  her,  "let  us  get  into  the  carriage;  the 
open  air  does  not  agree  with  us." 

Marie  turned  abruptly ;  the  young  man  followed  her, 
and  pressed  her  arm  with  little  respect,  but  in  a  manner 

9 


130  The   Chouans, 

that  expressed  his  imperious  admiration.  She  hastened 
her  steps.  Seeing  that  she  wished  to  escape  an  impor- 
tunate declaration,  he  became  the  more  ardent ;  being 
determined  to  win  a  first  favor  from  this  woman,  he 
risked  all  and  said,  looking  at  her  meaningly :  — 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  a  secret?  " 

''  Yes,  quickly,  if  it  concerns  you." 

''  I  am  not  in  the  service  of  the  Republic.  Where 
are  you  going?     I  shall  follow  you." 

At  the  words  Marie  trembled  violently.  She  with- 
drew her  arm  and  covered  her  face  with  both  hands  to 
hide  either  the  flush  or  the  pallor  of  her  cheeks ;  then 
she  suddenly  uncovered  her  face  and  said  in  a  voice  of 
deep  emotion :  — 

"  Then  you  began  as  you  would  have  ended,  by 
deceiving  me?" 

"  Yes,"  he  said. 

At  this  answer  she  turned  again  from  the  carriage, 
which  was  now  overtaking  them,  and  began  to  almost 
run  along  the  road. 

"I  thought,"  he  said,  following  her,  "that  the  open 
air  did  not  agree  with  you?" 

"Oh!  it  has  changed,"  she  replied  in  a  grave  tone, 
continuing  to  walk  on,  a  prey  to  agitating  thoughts. 

"  You  do  not  answer  me,"  said  the  3'oung  man,  his 
heart  full  of  the  soft  expectation  of  coming  pleasure. 

"Oh!"  she  said,  in  a  strained  voice,  "the  tragedy 
begins." 

"  What  tragedy?  "  he  asked. 

She  stopped  short,  looked  at  the  young  student  from 
head  to  foot  with  a  mingled  expression  of  fear  and  curi- 
osity ;  then  she  concealed  the  feelings  that  were  agitat- 
ing her  under  the  mask  of  an  impenetrable  calmness, 


The   Chouans.  131 

showing  that  for  a  girl  of  her  age  she  had  great  experi- 
ence of  life. 

*'  Who  are  you  ?  "  she  said,  —  "  but  I  know  alread}^ ; 
when  I  first  saw  you  I  suspected  it.  You  are  the  roy- 
alist leader  whom  they  call  the  Gars.  The  ex- bishop 
of  Autun  was  right  in  saying  we  should  alwaj's  believe 
in  presentiments  which  give  warning  of  evil." 

"  What  interest  have  you  in  knowing  the  Gars?" 

"What  interest  has  he  in  concealing  himself  from 
me  who  have  alread}'  saved  his  life  ?  "  She  began  to 
laugh,  but  the  merriment  was  forced.  ''I  have  wisely 
prevented  you  from  saying  that  you  love  me.  Let  me 
tell  you,  monsieur,  that  I  abhor  you.  I  am  republican, 
you  are  royalist ;  I  would  deliver  you  up  if  you  were 
not  under  my  protection,  and  if  I  had  not  already  saved 
your  life,  and  if —  "  she  stopped.  These  violent  ex- 
tremes of  feeling  and  the  inward  struggle  which  she  no 
longer  attempted  to  conceal  alarmed  the  young  man, 
who  tried,  but  in  vain,  to  observe  her  calmly.  '-Let 
us  part  here  at  once,  —  I  insist  upon  it ;  farewell !  "  she 
said.  She  turned  hastily  back,  made  a  few  steps,  and 
then  returned  to  him.  "No,  no,"  she  continued,  "I 
have  too  great  an  interest  in  knowing  who  you  are. 
Hide  nothing  from  me ;  tell  me  the  truth.  Who  are 
you  ?  for  you  are  no  more  a  pupil  of  the  6cole  Poly- 
technique  than  you  are  eighteen  years  old." 

"  I  am  a  sailor,  ready  to  leave  the  ocean  and  follow 
you  wherever  your  imagination  may  lead  you.  If  I 
have  been  so  lucky  as  to  rouse  your  curiosity  in  any 
particular  I  shall  be  very  careful  not  to  lessen  it.  Why 
mingle  the  serious  affairs  of  real  life  with  the  life  of  the 
heart  in  which  we  are  beginning  to  understand  each 
other?" 


182  TJie   Chouans, 

"Our  souls  might  have  understood  each  other,"  she 
said  in  a  grave  voice.  "  But  I  have  no  right  to  exact 
your  confidence.  You  will  never  know  the  extent  of 
your  obligations  to  me  ;  I  shall  not  explain  them." 

They  walked  a  few  steps  in  silence. 

"  My  life  does  interest  3'ou,"  said  the  young  man. 

"  Monsieur,  I  implore  you,  tell  me  your  name  or  else 
be  silent.  You  are  a  child,"  she  added,  with  an  impa- 
tient movement  of  her  shoulders,  "  and  I  feel  a  pity  for 
you/' 

The  obstinac}^  with  which  she  insisted  on  knowing 
his  name  made  the  pretended  sailor  hesitate  between 
prudence  and  love.  The  vexation  of  a  desired  woman 
is  powerfully  attractive  ;  her  anger,  like  her  submission, 
is  imperious ;  many  are  the  fibres  she  touches  in  a 
man's  heart,  penetrating  and  subjugating  it.  Was  this 
scene  only  another  aspect  of  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil's 
coquetry?  In  spite  of  his  sudden  passion  the  unnamed 
lover  had  the  strength  to  distrust  a  woman  thus  bent 
on  forcing  from  him  a  secret  of  life  and  death. 

"  Why  has  my  rash  indiscretion,  which  sought  to  give 
a  future  to  our  present  meeting,  destroyed  the  happiness 
of  it?"  he  said,  taking  her  hand,  which  she  left  in  his 
unconsciously. 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  who  seemed  to  be  in  real 
distress,  was  silent. 

*'How  have  I  displeased  you?"  he  said.  "What 
can  I  do  to  soothe  you  ?  " 

"  Tell  me  your  name." 

He  made  no  reply,  and  they  walked  some  distance  in 
silence.  Suddenly  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  stopped 
short,  like  one  who  has  come  to  some  serious  deter- 
mination. 


The   Chouans,  133 

"  Monsieur  le  Marquis  de  Montauran,"  she  said,  with 
dignity,  but  without  being  able  to  conceal  entirely  the 
nervous  trembling  of  her  features,  "  I  desire  to  do  you 
a  great  service,  whatever  it  may  cost  me.  We  part 
here.  The  coach  and  its  escort  are  necessary  for  your 
protection,  and  you  must  continue  your  journey  in  it. 
Fear  nothing  from  the  Republicans  ;  they  are  men  of 
honor,  and  I  shall  give  the  adjutant  certain  orders 
which  he  will  faithfully  execute.  As  for  me,  I  shall 
return  on  foot  to  Alen9on  with  my  maid,  and  take  a 
few  of  the  soldiers  with  me.  Listen  to  what  I  say,  for 
your  life  depends  on  it.  If,  before  3'ou  reach  a  place 
of  safety,  3'ou  meet  that  odious  man  you  saw  in  mj- 
company  at  the  inn,  escape  at  once,  for  he  will  instantly 
betray  you.  As  for  me,  —  "  she  paused,  —  "as  for  me, 
I  fling  myself  back  into  the  miseries  of  Hfe.  Farewell, 
monsieur,  may  you  be  happy  ;  farewell." 

She  made  a  sign  to  Captain  Merle,  who  was  just 
then  reaching  the  brow  of  the  hill  behind  her.  The 
marquis  was  taken  unawares  by  her  sudden  action. 

"Stop!"  he  cried,  in  a  tone  of  despair  that  was 
well  acted. 

This  singular  caprice  of  a  girl  for  whom  he  would  at 
that  instant  have  thrown  awa}*  his  life  so  surprised 
him,  that  he  invented,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  a 
fatal  fiction  by  which  to  hide  his  name  and  satisfy  the 
curiosity  of  his  companion. 

"  You  have  almost  guessed  the  truth,"  he  said.  "  I 
am  an  imigre,  condemned  to  death,  and  my  name  is 
Vicomte  de  Bauvan.  Love  of  my  country  has  brought 
me  back  to  France  to  join  my  brother.  I  hope  to  be 
taken  off  the  list  of  emigres  through  the  influence  of 
Madame  de  Beauharnais,  now  the  wife  of  the  First 


134  The   Chouans. 

Consul ;  but  if  I  fail  in  this,  I  mean  to  die  on  the  soil 
of  my  native  land,  fighting  beside  my  friend  Mon- 
tauran.  I  am  now  on  my  way  secretly,  by  means  of  a 
passport  he  has  sent  me,  to  learn  if  any  of  my  property 
in  Brittany  is  still  unconfiscated." 

While  the  young  man  spoke  Mademoiselle  de  Ver- 
neuil  examined  him  with  a  penetrating  eye.  She  tried 
at  first  to  doubt  his  words,  but  being  by  nature  con- 
fiding and  trustful,  she  slowly  regained  an  expression 
of  serenity,  and  said  eagerly,  "Monsieur,  are  you 
telling  me  the  exact  truth?" 

"  Yes,  the  exact  truth,"  replied  the  young  man,  who 
seemed  to  have  no  conscience  in  his  dealings  with 
women. 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  gave  a  deep  sigh,  like  a 
person  who  returns  to  life. 

"  Ah  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  I  am  ver^'  happy." 

"  Then  you  hate  that  poor  Montauran?" 

"  No,"  she  said  ;  "  but  I  could  not  make  you  under- 
stand my  meaning.  I  was  not  willing  that  you  should 
meet  the  dangers  from  which  I  will  trj'  to  protect  him, 
—  since  he  is  your  friend." 

"  Who  told  you  that  Montauran  was  in  danger?" 

"  Ah,  monsieur,  even  if  I  had  not  come  from  Paris, 
where  his  enterprise  is  the  one  thing  talked  of,  the 
commandant  at  AleuQon  said  enough  to  show  his 
danger." 

' '  Then  let  me  ask  you  how  you  expect  to  save  him 
from  it." 

"  Suppose  I  do  not  choose  to  answer,"  she  replied, 
with  the  haughty  air  that  women  often  assume  to  hide 
an  emotion.  "  What  right  have  you  to  know  my 
secrets  ?  " 


The   Chouans.  135 

"  The  right  of  a  man  who  loves  you." 

"Already?"  she  said.  "  No,  3011  do  not  love  me. 
I  am  only  an  object  of  passing  gallantry  to  3'ou,  — that 
is  all.  I  am  clear-sighted  ;  did  I  not  penetrate  j^our 
disguise  at  once?  A  woman  who  knows  an3^thing  of 
good  societ3'  could  not  be  misled,  in  these  da\'s,  b3"  a 
pupil  of  the  Polytechnique  who  uses  choice  language, 
and  conceals  as  little  as  you  do  the  manners  of  a  grand 
seigneur  under  the  mask  of  a  Republican.  There  is  a 
trifle  of  powder  left  in  your  hair,  and  a  fragrance  of 
nobility  clings  to  3'ou  which  a  woman  of  the  world  can- 
not fail  to  detect.  Therefore,  fearing  that  the  man 
whom  you  saw  accompanying  me,  who  has  all  the 
shrewdness  of  a  woman,  might  make  the  same  dis- 
covery, I  sent  him  awa3'.  Monsieur,  let  me  tell  you 
that  a  true  Republican  officer  just  from  the  Pol3'tech- 
nique  would  not  have  made  love  to  me  as  you  have 
done,  and  would  not  have  taken  me  for  a  pretty  ad- 
venturess. Allow  me,  Monsieur  de  Bauvan,  to  preach 
you  a  little  sermon  from  a  woman's  point  of  view.  Are 
3'ou  too  juvenile  to  know  that  of  all  the  creatures  of 
m3'  sex  the  most  difficult  to  subdue  is  that  same  ad- 
venturess, —  she  whose  price  is  ticketed  and  who  is 
weary  of  pleasure.  That  sort  of  woman  requires, 
they  tell  me,  constant  seduction  ;  she  yields  only  to 
her  own  caprices  ;  an3^  attempt  to  please  her  argues  1 
I  should  suppose,  great  conceit  on  the  part  of  a  man. 
But  let  us  put  aside  that  class  of  women,  among 
whom  30U  have  been  good  enough  to  rank  me  ;  3'ou 
ought  to  understand  that  a  young  woman,  handsome, 
brilliant,  and  of  noble  birth  (for,  I  suppose,  you  will 
grant  me  those  advantages),  does  not  sell  herself,  and 
can  only  be  won  by  the  man  who  loves  her  in  one  waJ^ 


136  The   Ohouans. 

You  understand  me?  If  she  loves  him  and  is  willing: 
to  commit  a  foil}',  she  must  be  justified  b}^  great  and 
heroic  reasons.  Forgive  me  this  logic,  rare  in  m}^  sex  ; 
but  for  the  sake  of  your  happiness,  —  and  ra}'  own,"  she 
added,  dropping  her  head,  —  "I  will  not  allow  either 
of  us  to  deceive  the  other,  nor  will  I  permit  you  to  think 
that  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  angel  or  devil,  maid  or 
wife,  is  capable  of  being  seduced  b}-  commonplace 
gallantry." 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  the  marquis,  whose  surprise, 
though  he  concealed  it,  was  extreme,  and  who  at  once 
became  a  man  of  the  great  world,  "I  entreat  you  to 
believe  that  I  take  you  to  be  a  very  noble  person,  full 
of  the  highest  sentiments,  or  —  a  charming  girl,  as  you 
please." 

' '  I  don't  ask  all  that,"  she  said,  laughing.  ^'  Allow 
me  to  keep  my  incognito.  M}^  mask  is  better  than 
yours,  and  it  pleases  me  to  wear  it, — if  only  to  dis- 
cover whether  those  who  talk  to  me  of  love  are  sincere. 
Therefore,  beware  of  me  !  Monsieur,"  she  cried,  catch- 
ing his  arm  vehemently,  "listen  to  me;  if  you  were 
able  to  prove  that  your  love  is  true,  nothing,  no  human 
power,  could  part  us.  Yes,  I  would  fain  unite  myself 
to  the  noble  destiny  of  some  great  man,  and  marry  a 
vast  ambition,  glorious  hopes  !  Noble  hearts  are  never 
faithless,  for  constancy  is  in  their  fibre ;  I  should  be 
forever  loved,  forever  happy,  —  I  would  make  my  body 
a  stepping-stone  by  which  to  raise  the  man  who  loved 
me ;  I  would  sacrifice  all  things  to  him,  bear  all  things 
from  him,  and  love  him  forever,  —  even  if  he  ceased  to 
love  me.  I  have  never  before  dared  to  confess  to  an- 
other heart  the  secrets  of  mine,  nor  the  passionate 
enthusiasms  which  exhaust  me ;  but  I  tell  you  some- 


The  Chouans.  137 

thing  of  them  now  because,  as  soon  as  I  have  seen 
you  in  safety,  we  shall  part  forever." 

"  Part?  never  !  "  he  cried,  electrified  by  the  tones  of 
that  vigorous  soul  which  seemed  to  be  fighting  against 
some  overwhelming  thought. 

"Are  you  free?"  she  said,  with  a  haughty  glance 
which  subdued  him. 

''  Free !  yes,  except  for  the  sentence  of  death  which 
hangs  over  me." 

She  added  presently,  in  a  voice  full  of  bitter  feeling  : 
"If  all  this  were  not  a  dream,  a  glorious  life  might 
indeed  be  ours.  But  I  have  been  talking  folly  ;  let  us 
beware  of  committing  any.  When  I  think  of  all  you 
would  have  to  be  before  you  could  rate  me  at  my  proper 
value  I  doubt  everything  —  " 

"  I  doubt  nothing  if  you  will  only  grant  me  —  " 

"Hush!"  she  cried,  hearing  a  note  of  true  passion 
in  his  voice,  "  the  open  air  is  decidedly  disagreeing  with 
us  ;  let  us  return  to  the  coach." 

That  vehicle  soon  came  up ;  the}'  took  their  places 
and  drove  on  several  miles  in  total  silence.  Both  had 
matter  for  reflection,  but  henceforth  their  eyes  no  longer 
feared  to  meet.  Each  now  seemed  to  have  an  equal 
interest  in  observing  the  other,  and  in  mutually  hid- 
ing important  secrets  ;  but  for  all  that  they  were  drawn 
together  by  one  and  the  same  impulse,  which  now,  as  a 
result  of  this  interview,  assumed  the  dimensions  of  a 
passion.  They  recognized  in  each  other  qualities  which 
promised  to  heighten  all  the  pleasures  to  be  derived 
from  either  their  contest  or  their  union.  Perhaps  both 
of  them,  living  a  life  of  adventure,  had  reached  the  sin- 
gular moral  condition  in  which,  either  from  weariness 
or  in  defiance  of  fate,  the  mind  rejects  serious  reflection 


138  The  Chouans. 

and  flings  itself  on  chance  in  pursuing  an  enterj^rise  pre- 
cisely because  the  issues  of  chance  are  unknown,  and 
the  interest  of  expecting  them  vivid.  The  moral  nature, 
like  the  physical  nature,  has  its  abysses  into  which 
strong  souls  love  to  plunge,  risking  their  future  as 
gamblers  risk  their  fortune.  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil 
and  the  young  marquis  had  obtained  a  revelation  of 
each  other's  minds  as  a  consequence  of  this  interview, 
and  their  intercourse  thus  took  rapid  strides,  for  the 
sympathy  of  their  souls  succeeded  to  that  of  their 
senses.  Besides,  the  more  they  felt  fatally  drawn  to 
each  other,  the  more  eager  they  were  to  study  the 
secret  action  of  their  minds.  The  so-called  Vicomte 
de  Bauvan,  surprised  at  the  seriousness  of  the  strange 
girl's  ideas,  asked  himself  how  she  could  possibl}'  com- 
bine such  acquired  knowledge  of  life  with  so  much 
youth  and  freshness.  He  thought  he  discovered  an 
extreme  desire  to  appear  chaste  in  the  modesty  and 
reserve  of  her  attitudes.  He  suspected  her  of  plajing 
a  part ;  he  questioned  the  nature  of  his  own  pleasure  ; 
and  ended  b}'  choosing  to  consider  her  a  clever  actress. 
He  was  right ;  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  like  other 
women  of  the  world,  grew  the  more  reserved  the  more 
she  felt  the  warmth  of  her  own  feelings,  assuming  with 
perfect  naturalness  the  appearance  of  prudery ,  beneath 
which  such  women  veil  their  desires.  They  all  wish  to 
offer  themselves  as  virgins  on  love's  altar ;  and  if  the}' 
are  not  so,  the  deception  they  seek  to  practise  is  at 
least  a  homage  which  they  pay  to  their  lovers.  These 
thoughts  passed  rapidly  through  the  mind  of  the  3'oung 
man  and  gratified  him.  In  fact,  for  both,  this  mutual 
examination  was  an  advance  in  their  intercourse,  and 
the  lover  soon  came  to  that  phase  of  passion  in  which 


The   Chouans.  139 

a  man  finds  in  the  defects  of  his  mistress  a  reason  for 
loving  her  the  more. 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  was  thoughtful.  Perhaps 
her  imagination  led  her  over  a  greater  extent  of  the 
future  than  that  of  the  young  emigre,  who  was  merely 
following  one  of  the  man}'  impulses  of  his  life  as  a  man  ; 
whereas  Marie  was  considering  a  lifetime,  thinking  to 
make  it  beautiful,  and  to  fill  it  with  happiness  and  with 
grand  and  noble  sentiments.  Happy  in  such  thoughts, 
more  in  love  with  her  ideal  than  with  the  actual  reality, 
with  the  future  rather  than  with  the  present,  she  desired 
now  to  return  upon  her  steps  so  as  to  better  establish  her 
power.  In  this  she  acted  instinctively,  as  all  women  act. 
Having  agreed  with  her  soul  that  she  would  give  herself 
wholly  up,  she  wished  —  if  we  may  so  express  it  —  to  dis- 
pute every  fragment  of  the  gift ;  she  longed  to  take  back 
from  the  past  all  her  words  and  looks  and  acts  and 
make  them  more  in  harmon}-  with  the  dignity  of  a 
woman  beloved.  Her  eyes  at  times  expressed  a  sort 
of  terror  as  she  thought  of  the  interview  just  over,  in 
which  she  had  shown  herself  aggressive.  But  as  she 
watched  the  face  before  her,  instinct  with  power,  and 
felt  that  a  being  so  strong  must  also  be  generous,  she 
glowed  at  the  thought  that  her  part  in  life  would  be 
nobler  than  that  of  most  women,  inasmuch  as  her  lover 
was  a  man  of  character,  a  man  condemned  to  death, 
who  had  come  to  risk  his  life  in  making  war  asjainst 
the  Republic.  The  thought  of  occupying  such  a  soul 
to  the  exclusion  of  all  rivals  gave  a  new  aspect  to  many 
matters.  Between  the  moment,  only  five  hours  earlier, 
when  she  composed  her  face  and  toned  her  voice  to 
allure  the  young  man,  and  the  present  moment,  when 
she  was  able  to  convulse  him  with  a  look,  there  was  all 


140  The  Chouans. 

the  difference  to  her  between  a  dead  world  and  a  living 
one. 

In  the  condition  of  soul  in  which  Mademoiselle  de 
Verneuil  now  existed  external  life  seemed  to  her  a  spe- 
cies of  phantasmagoria.  The  carriage  passed  through 
villages  and  valleys  and  mounted  hills  which  left  no 
impressions  on  her  mind.  They  reached  Mayenne ; 
the  soldiers  of  the  escort  were  changed  ;  Merle  spoke 
to  her ;  she  replied  ;  they  crossed  the  whole  town  and 
were  again  in  the  open  country ;  but  the  faces,  houses, 
streets,  landscape,  men,  swept  past  her  like  the  figments 
of  a  dream.  Night  came,  and  Marie  was  travelling  be- 
neath a  diamond  sky,  wrapped  in  soft  light,  and  3'et  she 
was  not  aware  that  darkness  had  succeeded  day ;  that 
Maj^enne  was  passed  ;  that  Fougeres  was  near ;  she 
knew  not  even  where  she  was  going.  That  she  should 
part  in  a  few  hours  from  the  man  she  had  chosen,  and 
who,  she  believed,  had  chosen  her,  was  not  for  her  a 
possibility.  Love  is  the  onl}^  passion  which  looks  to 
neither  past  nor  future.  Occasionalh^  her  thoughts 
escaped  in  broken  words,  in  phrases  devoid  of  meaning, 
though  to  her  lover's  ears  tliey  sounded  like  promises 
of  love.  To  the  two  witnesses  of  this  birth  of  passion 
she  seemed  to  be  rushing  onward  with  fearful  rapidity. 
Francine  knew  Marie  as  well  as  Madame  du  Gua  knew 
the  marquis,  and  their  experience  of  the  past  made 
them  await  in  silence  some  terrible  finale.  It  was, 
indeed,  not  long  before  the  end  came  to  the  drama  which 
Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  had  called,  without  perhaps 
imagining  the  truth  of  her  words,  a  tragedy. 

When  the  travellers  were  about  three  miles  beyond 
Mayenne  thej^  heard  a  horseman  riding  after  them  with 
great  rapidity.    When  he  reached  the  carriage  he  leaned 


The   Chouans,  141 

towards  it  to  look  at  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  who 
recognized  Corentin.  That  offensive  personage  made 
her  a  sign  of  intelligence,  the  familiarit}'  of  which  was 
deeply  mortifying ;  then  he  turned  away,  after  chilling 
her  to  the  bone  with  a  look  full  of  some  base  meaning. 
The  young  emigre  seemed  painfully  affected  by  this 
circumstance,  which  did  not  escape  the  notice  of  his  pre- 
tended mother;  but  Marie  softly  touched  him,  seeming 
by  her  eyes  to  take  refuge  in  his  heart  as  though  it  were 
her  only  haven.  His  brow  cleared  at  this  proof  of  the 
full  extent  of  his  mistress's  attachment,  coming  to  him 
as  it  were  by  accident.  An  inexplicable  fear  seemed  to 
have  overcome  her  coyness,  and  her  love  was  visible 
for  a  moment  without  a  veil.  Unfortunately  for  both 
of  them,  Madame  du  Gua  saw  it  all ;  like  a  miser  who 
gives  a  feast,  she  seemed  to  count  the  morsels  and  be- 
grudge the  wine. 

Absorbed  in  their  happiness  the  lovers  arrived,  with- 
out any  consciousness  of  the  distance  they  had  trav- 
ersed, at  that  part  of  the  road  which  passed  through 
the  valley  of  Ernee.  There  Francine  noticed  and 
showed  to  her  companions  a  number  of  strange  forms 
which  seemed  to  move  like  shadows  among  the  trees 
and  gorse  that  surrounded  the  fields.  When  the  car- 
riage came  within  range  of  these  shadows  a  volley  of 
musketry,  the  balls  of  which  whistled  above  their  heads, 
warned  the  travellers  that  the  shadows  were  realities. 
The  escort  had  fallen  into  a  trap. 

Captain  Merle  now  keenly  regretted  having  adopted 
Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil's  idea  that  a  rapid  journey 
by  night  would  be  a  safe  one,  —  an  error  which  had  led 
him  to  reduce  his  escort  from  Mayenne  to  sixty  men. 
He  at  once,  under  Gerard's  orders,  divided  his  little 


142  The   Chouans. 

troop  into  two  columns,  one  on  each  side  of  the  road, 
which  the  two  officers  marched  at  a  quick  step  among 
the  gorse  hedges,  eager  to  meet  the  assailants,  though 
ignorant  of  their  number.  The  Blues  beat  the  thick 
bushes  right  and  left  with  rash  intrepiditj',  and  replied 
to  the  Chouans  with  a  steady  fire. 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil's  first  impulse  was  to  jump 
from  the  carriage  and  run  back  along  the  road  until  she 
was  out  of  sight  of  the  battle  ;  but  ashamed  of  her  fears, 
and  moved  by  the  feeling  which  impels  us  all  to  act 
nobly  under  the  eyes  of  those  we  love,  she  presently 
stood  still,  endeavoring  to  watch  the  combat  coolly. 

The  marquis  followed  her,  took  her  hand,  and  placed 
it  on  his  breast. 

"  I  was  afraid,"  she  said,  smiling,  "  but  now  —  " 

Just  then  her  terrified  maid  cried  out :  "  Marie,  take 
care!" 

But  as  she  said  the  words,  Francine,  who  was  spring- 
ing from  the  carriage,  felt  herself  grasped  bj^  a  strong 
hand.  The  sudden  weight  of  that  enormous  hand  made 
her  shriek  violently- ;  she  turned,  and  was  instantly  si- 
lenced on  recognizing  Marche-a-Terre. 

"  Twice  I  owe  to  chance,"  said  the  marquis  to  Ma- 
demoiselle de  Verneuil,  "  the  revelation  of  the  sweetest 
secrets  of  the  heart.  Thanks  to  Francine  I  now  know 
3^ou  bear  the  gracious  name  of  Marie,  —  Marie,  the 
name  I  have  invoked  in  my  distresses,  —  Marie,  a  name 
I  shall  henceforth  speak  in  joy,  and  never  without 
sacrifice,  mingUng  religion  and  love.  There  can  be  no 
wrong  where  pra3'er  and  love  go  together." 

They  clasped  hands,  looked  silentl}'  into  each  other's 
eyes,  and  the  excess  of  their  emotion  took  away  from 
them  the  power  to  express  it. 


The   Chouans.  143 

*'  There  's  no  danger  for  the  rest  ofyou,'^  Marche-a- 
Terre'  was  saying  roughly  to  Francine,  giving  to  his 
hoarse  and  guttural  voice  a  reproachful  tone,  and  em- 
phasizing his  last  words  in  a  way  to  stupefy  the  inno- 
cent peasant-girl.  B^or  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  saw 
ferocity  in  that  face.  The  moonlight  seemed  to  heighten 
the  effect  of  it.  The  savage  Breton,  holding  his  cap  in 
one  hand  and  his  heavy  carbine  in  the  other,  dumpy  and 
thickset  as  a  gnome,  and  bathed  in  that  white  light  the 
shadows  of  which  give  such  fantastic  aspects  to  forms, 
seemed  to  belong  more  to  a  world  of  goblins  than  to 
reality.  This  apparition  and  its  tone  of  reproach  came 
upon  Francine  with  the  suddenness  of  a  phantom.  He 
turned  rapidly  to  Madame  du  Gua,  with  whom  he  ex- 
changed a  few  eager  words,  which  Francine,  who  had 
somewhat  forgotten  the  dialect  of  Lower  Brittany,  did 
not  understand.  The  lady  seemed  to  be  giving  him  a 
series  of  orders.  The  short  conference  ended  by  an 
imperious  gesture  of  the  lady's  hand  pointing  out  to  the 
Chouan  the  lovers  standing  a  little  distance  apart. 
Before  obeying,  Marche-a-Terre  glanced  at  Francine 
whom  he  seemed  to  pity  ;  he  wished  to  speak  to  her, 
and  the  girl  was  aware  that  his  silence  was  compulsory. 
The  rough  and  sunburnt  skin  of  his  forehead  wrinkled, 
and  his  eyebrows  were  drawn  violentl}'  together.  Did 
he  think  of  disobeying  a  renewed  order  to  kill  Made- 
moiselle de  Verneuil  ?  The  contortion  of  his  face  made 
him  all  the  more  hideous  to  Madame  du  Gua,  but  to 
Francine  the  flash  of  his  eye  seemed  almost  gentle,  for 
it  taught  her  to  feel  intuitivel}'  that  the  violence  of  his 
savage  nature  would  yield  to  her  will  as  a  woman,  and 
that  she  reigned,  next  to  God,  in  that  rough  heart. 

The  lovers  were  interrupted  in  their  tender  interview 


144  The   Chouans. 

by  Madame  du  Gua,  who  ran  up  to  Marie  with  a  cry, 
and  pulled  her  away  as  though  some  danger  threatened 
her.  Her  real  object  however,  was  to  enable  a  mem- 
ber of  the  royalist  committee  of  AlenQon,  whom  she 
saw  approaching  them,  to  speak  privately  to  the  Gars. 

*'  Beware  of  the  girl  you  met  at  the  hotel  in  Alencon  ; 
she  will  betray  3'ou,"  said  the  Chevalier  de  Valois,  in 
the  young  man's  ear  ;  and  immediately  he  and  his  little 
Breton  horse  disappeared  among  the  bushes  from  which 
he  had  issued. 

The  firing  was  heavy  at  that  moment,  but  the  com- 
batants did  not  come  to  close  quarters. 

"Adjutant,"  said  Clef-des-Coeurs,  "isn't  it  a  sham 
attack,  to  capture  our  travellers  and  get  a  ransom? " 

"  The  devil  is  in  it,  but  I  believe  you  are  right," 
replied  Gerard,  darting  back  towards  the  highroad. 

Just  then  the  Chouan  fire  slackened,  for,  in  truth, 
the  whole  object  of  the  skirmish  was  to  give  the  cheva- 
lier an  opportunity  to  utter  his  warning  to  the  Gars. 
Merle,  who  saw  the  enemy  disappearing  across  the 
hedges,  thought  best  not  to  follow  them  nor  to  enter  upon 
a  fight  that  was  uselessly  dangerous.  Gerard  ordered 
the  escort  to  take  its  former  position  on  the  road,  and 
the  convoy  was  again  in  motion  without  the  loss  of  a 
single  man.  The  captain  offered  his  hand  to  Made- 
moiselle de  Verneuil  to  replace  her  in  the  coach,  for  the 
young  nobleman  stood  motionless,  as  if  thunderstruck. 
Marie,  amazed  at  his  attitude,  got  into  the  carriage  alone 
without  accepting  the  politeness  of  the  Republican  ;  she 
turned  her  head  towards  her  lover,  saw  him  still  mo- 
tionless, and  was  stupefied  at  the  sudden  change  which 
had  evidently  come  over  him.  The  young  man  slowly 
returned,  his  whole  manner  betraying  deep  disgust. 


The   Ohouans.  145 

'<•  Was  I  not  right?  "  said  Madame  du  Gua  in  his  ear, 
as  she  led  him  to  the  coach.  "  We  have  fallen  into  the 
hands  of  a  creature  who  is  traffickmg  for  your  head ; 
but  since  she  is  such  a  fool  as  to  have  fallen  in  love 
with  you,  for  heaven's  sake  don't  behave  like  a  boy ; 
pretend  to  love  h^r  at  least  till  we  reach  La  Vivetiere  ; 
once  there  —  But,"  she  thought  to  herself,  seeing 
the  young  man  take  his  place  with  a  dazed  air,  as  if 
bewildered,  "can  it  be  that  he  already  loves  her?" 

The  coach  rolled  on  over  the  sandy  road.  To  Made- 
moiselle de  Verneuil's  eyes  all  seemed  changed.  Death 
was  gliding  beside  her  love.  Perhaps  it  was  only 
fancy,  but,  to  a  woman  who  loves,  fancy  is  as  vivid 
as  reality.  Francine,  who  had  clearly  understood  from 
Marche-k-Terre's  glance  that  Mademoiselle  de  Ver- 
neuil's fate,  over  which  she  had  commanded  him  to 
watch,  was  in  other  hands  than  his,  looked  pale  and 
haggard,  and  could  scarcely  restrain  her  tears  when  her 
mistress  spoke  to  her.  To  her  eyes  Madame  du  Gua's 
female  malignanc}^  was  scarcely  concealed  b}^  her 
treacherous  smiles,  and  the  sudden  change  which  her 
obsequious  attentions  to  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil 
made  in  her  manners,  voice,  and  expression  was  of  a 
nature  to  frighten  a  watchful  observer.  Mademoiselle 
de  Verneuil  herself  shuddered  instinctively,  asking 
herself,  "  Why  should  I  fear?  vShe  is  his  mother." 
Then  she  trembled  in  every  limb  as  the  thought  crossed 
her  mind,  "Is  she  reall}'  his  mother?"  An  abyss 
suddenly  opened  before  her,  and  she  cast  a  look  upon 
the  mother  and  son,  which  finally  enhghtened  her. 
"That  woman  loves  him!"  she  thought.  "But  why 
has  she  begim  these  attentions  after  showing  me  such 
coolness  ?     Am  I  lost  ?  or  —  is  she  afraid  of  me  ?  " 

10 


146  The   Chouans. 

As  for  the  young  man,  he  was  flushed  and  pale  by 
turns;  but  he  kept  a  quiet  attitude  and  lowered  his 
eyes  to  conceal  the  emotions  which  agitated  him.  The 
graceful  curve  of  his  lips  was  lost  in  their  close  com- 
pression, and  his  skin  turned  yellow  under  the  struggle 
of  his  stormy  thoughts.  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  was 
unable  to  decide  whether  any  love  for  her  remained  in 
his  evident  anger.  The  road,  flanked  by  woods  at  this 
particular  point,  became  darker  and  more  gloom}',  and 
the  obscurit}^  prevented  the  eyes  of  the  silent  travellers 
from  questioning  each  other.  The  sighing  of  the  wind, 
the  rustling  of  the  trees,  the  measured  step  of  the 
escort,  gave  that  almost  solemn  character  to  the  scene 
which  quickens  the  pulses.  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil 
could  not  long  try  in  vain  to  discover  the  reason  of  this 
change.  The  recollection  of  Corentin  came  to  her  like 
a  flash,  and  reminded  her  suddenly  of  her  real  destin3\ 
For  the  first  time  since  the  morning  she  reflected  seri- 
ously on  her  position.  Until  then  she  had  yielded  her- 
self up  to  the  delight  of  loving,  without  a  thought  of 
the  past  or  of  the  future.  Unable  to  bear  the  agony 
of  her  mind,  she  sought,  with  the  patience  of  love,  to 
obtain  a  look  from  the  young  man's  eyes,  and  when  she 
did  so  her  paleness  and  the  quiver  in  her  face  had  so 
penetrating  an  influence  over  him  that  he  wavered  ;  but 
the  softening  was  momentarj^ 

"Are  you  ill,  mademoiselle?"  he  said,  but  his  voice 
had  no  gentleness  ;  the  very  question,  the  look,  the  ges- 
ture, all  served  to  convince  her  that  the  events  of  this 
day  belonged  to  a  mirage  of  the  soul  which  was  fast 
disappearing  like  mists  before  the  wind. 

''Am  I  ill?"  she  replied,  with  a  forced  laugh.  "I 
was  going  to  ask  you  the  same  question." 


The   Chouans.  147 

*'I  supposed  you  understood  each  other,"  remarked 
Madame  du  Gua  with  specious  kindliness. 

Neither  the  young  man  nor  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil 
replied.  The  girl,  doubly  insulted,  was  angered  at 
feeling  her  powerful  beauty  powerless.  She  knew  she 
could  discover  the  cause  of  the  present  situation  the 
moment  she  chose  to  do  so ;  but,  for  the  first  time, 
perhaps,  a  woman  recoiled  before  a  secret.  Human 
life  is  sadly  fertile  in  situations  where,  as  a  result  of 
either  too  much  meditation  or  of  some  catastrophe, 
our  thoughts  seem  to  hold  to  nothing;  they  have  no 
substance,  no  point  of  departure,  and  the  present 
has  no  hooks  by  which  to  hold  to  the  past  or  fasten 
on  the  future.  This  was  Mademoiselle  de  VerneuiFs 
condition  at  the  present  moment.  Leaning  back  in' 
the  carriage,  she  sat  there  like  an  uprooted  shrub. 
Silent  and  suffering,  she  looked  at  no  one,  wrapped 
herself  in  her  grief,  and  buried  herself  so  completely 
in  the  unseen  world,  the  refuge  of  the  miserable, 
that  she  saw  nothing  around  her.  Crows  crossed  the 
road  in  the  air  above  them  cawing,  but  although,  like 
all  strong  hearts,  hers  had  a  superstitious  corner,  she 
paid  no  attention  to  the  omen.  The  part}^  travelled  on 
in  silence.  '*  Already  parted?"  Mademoiselle  de  Ver- 
neuil was  saying  to  herself  "  Yet  no  one  about  us  has 
uttered  one  word.  Could  it  be  Corentin  ?  It  is  not  his 
interest  to  speak.  Who  can  have  come  to  this  spot 
and  accused  me?  Just  loved,  and  already  abandoned  ! 
I  sow  attraction,  and  I  reap  contempt.  Is  it  my  per- 
petual fate  to  see  happiness  and  ever  lose  it?"  Pangs 
hitherto  unknown  to  her  wrung  her  heart,  for  she  now 
loved  truly  and  for  the  first  time.  Yet  she  had  not  so 
wholly  delivered  herself  to  her  lover  that  she  could  not 


148  The   Chouans, 

take  refuge  from  her  pain  in  the  natural  pride  and 
•  dignity  of  a  young  and  beautiful  woman.  The  secret 
of  her  love  —  a  secret  often  kept  hy  women  under 
torture  itself — had  not  escaped  her  lips.  Presently 
she  rose  from  her  reclining  attitude,  ashamed  that  she 
had  shown  her  passion  by  her  silent  sufferings ;  she 
shook  her  head  with  a  light-hearted  action,  and  showed 
a  face,  or  rather  a  mask,  that  was  gay  and  smiling ; 
then  she  raised  her  voice  to  disguise  the  quiver  of  It. 

"Where  are  we?"  she  said  to  Captain  Merle,  who 
kept  himself  at  a  certain  distance  from  the  carriage. 

"About  six  miles  from  Fougdres,  mademoiselle." 

"We  shall  soon  be  there,  shall  we  not?"  she  went 
on,  to  encourage  a  conversation  in  which  she  might 
show  some  preference  for  the  young  captain. 

"  A  Breton  mile,"  said  Merle  much  dehghted,  "  has 
the  disadvantage  of  never  ending ;  when  3'ou  are  at  the 
top  of  one  hill  you  see  a  valle}^  and  another  hill.  When 
5'ou  reach  the  summit  of  the  slope  we  are  now  ascend- 
mg  you  will  see  the  plateau  of  Mont  Pelerine  in  the 
distance.  Let  us  hope  the  Chouans  won't  take  their 
revenge  there.  Now,  in  going  up  hill  and  going  down 
hill  one  does  n't  make  much  headway.  From  La  Peler- 
ine you  will  still  see  —  " 

The  young  emigre  made  a  movement  at  the  name 
which  Marie  alone  noticed. 

"What  is  La  Pelerine?"  she  asked  hastily,  inter- 
rupting the  captain's  description  of  Breton  topograph}-. 

"It  is  the  summit  of  a  mountain,"  said  Merle, 
"which  gives  its  name  to  the  Maine  valley  through 
which  we  shall  presently  pass.  It  separates  this  valley 
from  that  of  Couesnon,  at  the  end  of  which  is  the  town 
of  Fougeres,  the  chief  town  in  Brittany.     We  had  a 


The   Chouans.  149 

fight  there  last  Vend^miaire  with  the  Gars  and  his 
brigands.  We  were  escorting  Breton  conscripts,  who 
meant  to  kill  us  sooner  than  leave  their  own  land ;  but 
Hulot  is  a  rough  Christian,  and  he  gave  them  —  " 

"Did  you  see  the  Gars?"  she  asked.  "  What  sort 
of  man  is  he  ?  " 

Her  keen,  malicious  eyes  never  left  the  so-called 
vicomte's  face. 

"Well,  mademoiselle,"  replied  Merle,  nettled  at  be- 
ing alwa^'s  interrupted,  "  he  is  so  like  citizen  du  Gua, 
that  if  your  friend  did  not  wear  the  uniform  of  the 
Ecole  Polytechnique  I  could  swear  it  was  he." 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  looked  fixedl}'  at  the  cold, 
impassible  young  man  who  had  scorned  her,  but  she 
saw  nothing  in  him  that  betrayed  the  slightest  feeling 
of  alarm.  She  warned  him  by  a  bitter  smile  that  she 
had  now  discovered  the  secret  so  treacherously  kept ; 
then  in  a  jesting  voice,  her  nostrils  dilating  with  plea- 
sure, and  her  head  so  turned  that  she  could  watch  the 
young  man  and  yet  see  Merle,  she  said  to  the  Repub- 
lican :  ''  That  new  leader  gives  a  great  deal  of  anxiety 
to  the  First  Consul.  He  is  very  daring,  they  say  ;  but 
he  has  the  weakness  of  rushing  headlong  into  adven- 
tures, especiall}'  with  women." 

"  We  are  counting  on  that  to  get  even  with  him,"  said 
the  captain.  "If  we  catch  him  for  only  an  hour  we 
shall  put  a  bullet  in  his  head.  He  '11  do  the  same  to  us 
if  he  meets  us,  so  par  pari  —  " 

"-  Oh ! "  said  the  emigre,  "  we  have  nothing  to  fear. 
Your  soldiers  cannot  go  as  far  as  La  Pelerine,  they 
are  tired,  and,  if  you  consent,  we  can  all  rest  a  short 
distance  from  here.  My  mother  stops  at  La  Viveti^re, 
the  road  to  which  turns  off  a  few  rods  farther  on. 


150  The   Chouans, 

These  ladies  might  hke  to  stop  there  too  ;  they  must  be 
tired  with  their  long  drive  from  Alen(;on  without  rest- 
ing;  and  as  mademoiselle,"  he  added,  with  forced 
politeness,  "has  had  the  generosit}'  to  give  safet}'  as 
well  as  pleasure  to  our  journey,  perhaps  she  will  deign 
to  accept  a  supper  from  my  mother ;  and  I  think,  cap- 
tain," he  added,  addressing  Merle,  "  the  times  are  not 
so  bad  but  what  we  can  find  a  barrel  of  cider  for  3'our 
men.  The  Gars  can't  have  taken  all,  at  least  my  mother 
thinks  not  —  " 

"Your  mother?"  said  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil, 
interrupting  him  in  a  tone  of  irony,  and  making  no 
repl}'  to  his  invitation. 

"  Does  my  age  seem  more  improbable  to  3'ou  this 
evening,  mademoiselle?"  said  Madame  du  Gua.  "  Un- 
fortunately I  was  married  very  3'oung,  and  my  son  was 
born  when  I  was  fifteen." 

'*  Are  3^ou  not  mistaken,  madame?  —  when  you  were 
thirty,  perhaps." 

Madame  du  Gua  turned  livid  as  she  swallowed  the 
sarcasm.  She  would  have  liked  to  revenge  herself  on 
the  spot,  but  was  forced  to  smile,  for  she  was  deter- 
mined at  any  cost,  even  that  of  insult,  to  discover  the 
nature  of  the  feelings  that  actuated  the  young  girl ;  she 
therefore  pretended  not  to  have  understood  her. 

''The  Chouans  have  never  had  a  more  cruel  leader 
than  the  Gars,  if  we  are  to  believe  the  stories  about 
him,"  she  said,  addressing  herself  vaguel}'  to  both  Fran- 
cine  and  her  mistress. 

"  Oh,  as  for  cruel,  I  don't  believe  that,"  said  Made- 
moiselle de  Verneuil ;  "  he  knows  how  to  lie,  but  he 
seems  rather  credulous  himself.  The  leader  of  a  party 
ought  not  to  be  the  plaything  of  others." 


The   Chouans.  151 

"  Do  you  know  him  ?  "  asked  the  emigre,  quietl3% 

"  No,"  she  replied,  with  a  disdainful  glance,  ''  but  I 
thought  I  did." 

"  Oh,  mademoiselle,  he 's  a  7nalm,  yes  a  malin,''  said 
Captain  Merle,  shaking  his  head  and  giving  with  an 
expressive  gesture  the  peculiar  meaning  to  the  word 
which  it  had  in  those  days  but  has  since  lost.  "  Those 
old  families  do  sometimes  send  out  vigorous  shoots. 
He  has  just  returned  from  a  country  where,  they  say, 
the  ci-devants  did  n't  find  life  too  easy,  and  men  ripen 
like  medlars  in  the  straw.  If  that  fellow  is  really  clever 
he  can  lead  us  a  pretty  dance.  He  has  already  formed 
companies  of  light  infantry  who  oppose  our  troops  and 
neutralize  the  efforts  of  the  government.  If  we  burn 
a  royalist  village  he  burns  two  of  ours.  He  can  hold 
an  immense  tract  of  country  and  force  us  to  spread  out 
our  men  at  the  very  moment  when  we  want  them  on  one 
spot.     Oh,  he  knows  what  he  is  about." 

"  He  is  cutting  his  country's  throat,"  said  Gerard  in 
a  loud  voice,  interrupting  the  captain. 

"Then,"  said  the  emigr^^'  "  if  his  death  would  de- 
liver the  nation,  why  don't  you  catch  him  and  shoot 
him?" 

As  he  spoke  he  tried  to  look  into  the  depths  of  Made- 
moiselle de  Verneuil's  soul,  and  one  of  those  voiceless 
scenes  the  dramatic  vividness  and  fleeting  sagacity  of 
which  cannot  be  reproduced  in  language  passed  be- 
tween them  in  a  flash.  Danger  is  always  interesting. 
The  worst  criminal  threatened  with  death  excites  pity. 
Though  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  was  now  certain  that 
the  lover  who  had  cast  her  off  was  this  very  leader  of 
the  Chouans,  she  was  not  ready  to  verify  her  suspicions 
by  giving  him  up ;  she  had  quite  another  curiosity  to 


152  The   Chouans. 

satisfy.  She  preferred  to  doubt  or  to  believe  as  her 
passion  led  her,  and  she  now  began  deliberatelj"  to  play 
with  peril.  Her  eyes,  full  of  scornful  meaning,  bade 
the  young  chief  notice  the  soldiers  of  the  escort ;  by 
thus  presenting  to  his  mind  triumphantly  an  image  of 
his  danger  she  made  him  feel  that  his  life  depended  on 
a  word  from  her,  and  her  lips  seemed  to  quiver  on  the 
verge  of  pronouncing  it.  Like  an  American  Indian,  she 
watched  ever}^  muscle  of  the  face  of  her  enemy,  tied,  as 
it  were,  to  the  stake,  while  she  brandished  her  toma- 
hawk gracefully,  enjoying  a  revenge  that  was  still  inno- 
cent, and  torturing  like  a  mistress  who  still  loves. 

"  If  I  had  a  son  like  yours,  madame,"  she  said  to 
Madame  du  Gua,  who  was  visibl}'  frightened,  "  I  should 
wear  mourning  from  the  daj'  when  I  had  yielded  him 
to  danger  ;  I  should  know  no  peace  of  mind. " 

No  answer  was  made  to  this  speech.  She  turned  her 
head  repeatedl}'  to  the  escort  and  then  suddenly  to  Ma- 
dame du  Gua,  without  detecting  the  slightest  secret  sig- 
nal between  the  lady  and  the  Gars  which  might  have 
confirmed  her  suspicions  on  the  nature  of  their  inti- 
macy, which  she  longed  to  doubt.  The  young  chief 
calmly  smiled,  and  bore  without  flinching  the  scrutiny 
she  forced  him  to  undergo  ;  his  attitude  and  the  expres- 
sion of  his  face  were  those  of  a  man  indifferent  to  dan- 
ger ;  he  even  seemed  to  say  at  times:  "This  is  your 
chance  to  avenge  your  wounded  vanity  —  take  it  !  I 
have  no  desire  to  lessen  my  contempt  for  j'ou." 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  began  to  study  the  young 
man  from  the  vantage-ground  of  lier  position  with 
coolness  and  dignit}' ;  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart  she 
admired  his  courage  and  tranquilhty.  Happy  in  dis- 
covering that  the  man  she  loved  bore  an  ancient  title 


The   Chouans.  153 

(the  distinctions  of  which  please  ever}'  woman),  she 
also  found  pleasure  in  meeting  him  in  their  present 
situation,  where,  as  champion  of  a  cause  ennobled  by 
misfortune,  he  was  fighting  with  all  the  faculties  of  a 
strong  soul  against  a  Republic  that  was  constantly  vic- 
torious. She  rejoiced  to  see  him  brought  face  to  face 
with  danger,  and  still  displaying  the  courage  and 
bravery  so  powerful  on  a  woman's  heart ;  again  and 
again  she  put  him  to  the  test,  obeying  perhaps  the 
instinct  which  induces  a  woman  to  play  with  her  vic- 
tim as  a  cat  plays  with  a  mouse. 

"  By  virtue  of  what  law  do  you  put  the  Chouans  to 
death?"  she  said  to  Merle. 

"  That  of  the  14th  of  last  Fructidor,  which  outlaws 
the  insurgent  departments  and  proclaims  martial  law," 
replied  the  Republican. 

"  May  I  ask  why  I  have  the  honor  to  attract  your 
eyes  ?  "  she  said  presently  to  the  young  chiefp  who  was 
attentivel}^  watching  her. 

'^  Because  of  a  feeling  which  a  man  of  honor  cannot 
express  to  any  woman,  no  matter  who  she  is,"  replied 
the  Marquis  de  Montauran,  in  a  low  voice,  bending 
down  to  her.  "  We  live  in  times,"  he  said  aloud, 
"when  women  do  the  work  of  the  executioner  and 
wield  the  axe  with  even  better  effect." 

She  looked  at  de  Montauran  fixedly  ;  then,  delighted 
to  be  attacked  by  the  man  whose  life  she  held  in  her 
hands,  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  smiling  softly:  *' Your 
head  is  a  ver}^  poor  one  ;  the  executioner  does  not  want 
it ;  I  shall  keep  it  myself." 

The  marquis  looked  at  the  inexplicable  girl,  whose 
love  had  overcome  all,  even  insult,  and  who  now 
avenged   herself  by  forgiving  that  which  women  are 


154  The   Ohouans. 

said  never  to  forgive.  His  e3'es  grew  less  stern,  less 
cold  ;  a  look  of  sadness  came  upon  his  face.  His  love 
was  stronger  than  he  suspected.  Mademoiselle  de 
Verneuil,  satisfied  with  these  faint  signs  of  a  desired 
reconciliation,  glanced  at  him  tenderly,  with  a  smile 
that  was  like  a  kiss  ;  then  she  leaned  back  once  more 
in  the  carriage,  determined  not  to  risk  the  future  of  this 
happy  drama,  believing  she  had  assured  it  with  her 
smile.  She  was  so  beautiful!  She  knew  so  well  how 
to  conquer  all  obstacles  to  love!  She  was  so  accus- 
tomed to  take  all  risks  and  push  on  at  all  hazards! 
She  loved  the  unexpected,  and  the  tumults  of  life  — 
wh}'  should  she  fear? 

Before  long  the  carriage,  under  the  young  chiefs  di- 
rections, left  the  highway  and  took  a  road  cut  between 
banks  planted  with  apple-trees,  more  like  a  ditch  than 
a  roadway,  which  led  to  La  Viveti^re.  The  carriage 
now  advanced  rapidly,  leaving  the  escort  to  follow 
slowly  towards  the  manor-house,  the  gray  roofs  of  which 
appeared  and  disappeared  among  the  trees.  Some  of 
the  men  lingered  on  the  way  to  knock  the  stiff  clay  of 
the  road-bed  from  their  shoes. 

''This  is  devilishl}^  like  the  road  to  Paradise,"  re- 
marked Beau-Pied. 

Thanks  to  the  impatience  of  the  postilion.  Mademoi- 
selle de  Verneuil  soon  saw  the  chateau  of  La  Vivetiere. 
This  house,  standing  at  the  end  of  a  sort  of  promontor}', 
was  protected  and  surrounded  by  two  deep  lakelets,  and 
could  be  reached  only  by  a  narrow  causeway.  That 
part  of  the  little  peninsula  on  which  the  house  and 
gardens  were  placed  was  still  further  protected  b}^  a 
moat  filled  with  water  from  the  two  lakes  which  it  con- 
nected.    The  house  really  stood  on  an  island  that  was 


The   Chouans.  155 

well-nigh  impregnable,  —  an  invaluable  retreat  for  a 
chieftain,  who  could  be  surprised  there  only  by 
treachery. 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  put  her  head  out  of  the 
carriage  as  she  heard  the  rusty  hinges  of  the  great 
gates  open  to  give  entrance  to  an  arched  portal  which 
had  been  much  injured  during  the  late  war.  The 
gloomy  colors  of  the  scene  which  met  her  eyes  almost 
extinguished  the  thoughts  of  love  and  coquetry  in  which 
she  had  been  indulging.  The  carriage  entered  a  large 
courtyard  that  was  nearly  square,  bordered  on  each 
side  by  the  steep  banks  of  the  lakelets.  Those  sterile 
shores,  washed  by  the  water,  which  was  covered  with 
large  green  patches,  had  no  other  ornament  than  aquatic 
trees  devoid  of  foliage,  the  twisted  trunks  and  hoary 
heads  of  which,  rising  from  the  reeds  and  rushes,  gave 
them  a  certain  grotesque  likeness  to  gigantic  marmo- 
sets. These  ugly  growths  seemed  to  waken  and  talk 
to  each  other  when  the  frogs  deserted  them  with  much 
croaking,  and  the  water-fowl,  startled  by  the  sound  of 
the  wheels,  flew  low  upon  the  surface  of  the  pools. 
The  courtyard,  full  of  rank  and  seeded  grasses,  reeds, 
and  shrubs,  either  dwarf  or  parasite,  excluded  all  im- 
pression of  order  or  of  splendor.  The  house  appeared 
to  have  been  long  abandoned.  The  roof  seemed  to 
bend  beneath  the  weight  of  the  various  vegetations 
which  grew  upon  it.  The  walls,  though  built  of  the 
smooth,  slaty  stone  which  abounds  in  that  region, 
showed  many  rifts  and  chinks  where  ivy  had  fastened 
its  rootlets.  Two  main  buildings,  joined  at  the  angle 
by  a  tall  tower  which  faced  the  lake,  formed  the  whole 
of  the  chateau,  the  doors  and  swinging,  rotten  shutters, 
rusty  balustrades,  and  broken  windows  of  which  seemed 


156  The   Ohouans. 

ready  to  fall  at  the  first  tempest.  The  north  wind 
whistled  through  these  ruins,  to  which  the  moon,  with 
her  indefinite  light,  gave  the  character  and  outline  of  a 
great  spectre.  But  the  colors  of  those  gray-blue  gran- 
ites, mingling  with  the  black  and  tawn}-  schists,  must 
have  been  seen  in  order  to  understand  how  vividly  a 
spectral  image  was  suggested  by  the  empty  and  gloomy 
carcass  of  the  building.  Its  disjointed  stones  and 
paneless  windows,  the  battered  tower  and  broken  roofs 
gave  it  the  aspect  of  a  skeleton  ;  the  birds  of  pre}^  which 
flew  from  it,  shrieking,  added  another  feature  to  this 
vague  resemblance.  A  few  tall  pine-trees  standing 
behind  the  house  waved  their  dark  foliage  above  the 
roof,  and  several  yews  cut  into  formal  shapes  at  the 
angles  of  the  building,  festooned  it  gloomily  like 
the  ornaments  on  a  hearse.  The  style  of  the  doors, 
the  coarseness  of  the  decorations,  the  want  of  harmony 
in  the  architecture,  were  all  characteristic  of  the  feudal 
manors  of  which  Brittany  was  proud  ;  perhaps  justly 
proud,  for  they  maintained  upon  that  Gaelic  ground 
a  species  of  monumental  history  of  the  nebulous  pe- 
riod which  preceded  the  establishment  of  the  French 
monarchy. 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  to  whose  imagination  the 
word  "  chateau "  brought  none  but  its  conventional 
ideas,  was  affected  by  the  funereal  aspect  of  the  scene. 
She  sprang  from  the  carriage  and  stood  apart  gazing 
at  it  in  terror,  and  debating  within  herself  what  action 
she  ought  to  take.  Francine  heard  Madame  du  Gua 
give  a  sigh  of  relief  as  she  felt  herself  in  safety  beyond 
reach  of  the  Blues ;  an  exclamation  escaped  her  when 
the  gates  were  closed,  and  she  saw  the  carriage  and  its 
occupants  within  the  walls  of  this  natural  fortress. 


The   Chouans.  157 

The  Marquis  de  Montauran  turned  hastily  to  Made- 
moiselle de  Verneuil,  divining  the  thoughts  that  crowded 
on  her  mind. 

"This  chateau,"  he  said,  rather  sadly,  "  was  ruined 
by  the  war,  just  as  my  plans  for  our  happiness  have 
been  ruined  by  you.*' 

"  How  ruined?"  she  asked  in  surprise. 

*'  Are  you  indeed  '  beautiful,  brilliant,  and  of  noble 
birth  '  ? "  he  asked  ironically,  repeating  the  words  she 
had  herself  used  in  their  former  conversation. 

"  Who  has  told  you  to  the  contrary?" 

"Friends,  in  whom  I  put  faith;  who  care  for  my 
safety  and  are  on  the  watch  against  treachery." 

"Treachery!"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  sarcastic  tone. 
"  Have  you  forgotten  Hulot  and  Alengon  already? 
You  have  no  memory, —  a  dangerous  defect  in  the  leader 
of  a  party.  But  if  friends,"  she  added  with  increased 
sarcasm,  ''are  so  all-powerful  in  your  heart,  keep  your 
friends.  Nothing  is  comparable  to  the  joys  of  friendship. 
Adieu ;  neither  I  nor  the  soldiers  of  the  Republic  will 
stop  here." 

She  turned  towards  the  gateway  with  a  look  of 
wounded  pride  and  scorn,  and  her  motions  as  she  did 
so  displayed  a  dignity  and  also  a  despair  which  changed 
in  an  instant  the  thoughts  of  the  young  man  ;  he  felt  that 
the  cost  of  relinquishing  his  desires  was  too  great,  and 
he  gave  himself  up  deliberately  to  imprudence  and 
credulity.  He  loved ;  and  the  lovers  had  no  desire 
now  to  quarrel  with  each  other. 

"  Sa}"  but  one  word  and  I  will  believe  you,"  he  said, 
in  a  supplicating  voice. 

"  One  word?  "  she  answered,  closing  her  lips  tightly, 
"  not  a  single  word ;  not  even  a  gesture." 


158  The    Chouans. 

"At  least,  be  angry  with  me,"  he  entreated,  trying 
to  take  the  hand  she  withheld  from  him,  —  "  that  is,  if 
you  dare  to  be  angry  with  the  leader  of  the  rebels,  who 
is  now  as  sad  and  distrustful  as  he  was  lately  happy  and 
confiding." 

Marie  gave  him  a  look  that  was  far  from  angry,  and 
he  added :  ' '  You  have  my  secret,  but  I  have  not 
yours." 

The  alabaster  brow  appeared  to  darken  at  these 
words  ;  she  cast  a  look  of  anno3'ance  on  tlie  young 
chieftain,  and  answered,  hastily  :  "  Tell  you  my  secret? 
Never ! " 

In  love  every  word,  every  glance  has  the  eloquence 
of  the  moment ;  but  on  this  occasion  Mademoiselle  de 
VerneuiFs  exclamation  revealed  nothing,  and,  clever  as 
Montauran  might  be,  its  secret  was  impenetrable  to 
him,  though  the  tones  of  her  voice  betrayed  some 
extraordinary  and  unusual  emotion  which  piqued  his 
curiosity. 

"  You  have  a  singular  way  of  dispelhng  suspicion," 
he  said. 

"Do  you  still  suspect  me?"  she  replied,  looking 
him  in  the  eye,  as  if  to  say,  "  What  rights  have  j'ou 
over  me?" 

"  Mademoiselle,"  said  the  young  man,  in  a  voice 
that  was  submissive  and  yet  firm,  "the  authority  you 
exercise  over  Republican  troops,  this  escort — " 

"Ah,  that  reminds  me!  My  escort  and  I,"  she 
asked,  in  a  slightly  satirical  tone,  "your  protectors, 
in  short,  —  will  the}'  be  safe  here?" 

"  Yes,  on  the  word  of  a  gentleman.  Whoever  you 
be,  you  and  your  party  have  nothing  to  fear  in  my 
house." 


The   Chouans.  159 

The  promise  was  made  with  so  loyal  and  generous 
an  air  and  manner  that  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  felt 
absolute!}'  secure  as  to  the  safety  of  the  Republican 
soldiers.  She  was  about  to  speak  when  Madame  du 
Gua's  approach  silenced  her.  That  lady  had  either 
overheard  or  guessed  part  of  their  conversation,  and 
was  filled  with  anxiety  at  no  longer  perceiving  any 
signs  of  animosity  between  them.  As  soon  as  the 
marquis  caught  sight  of  her,  he  offered  his  hand  to 
Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  and  led  her  hastil}'  towards 
the  house,  as  if  to  escape  an  undesired  companion. 

"  I  am  in  their  way,"  thought  Madame  du  Gua, 
remaining  where  she  was.  She  watched  the  lovers 
walking  slowly  towards  the  portico,  where  they  stopped, 
as  if  satisfied  to  have  placed  some  distance  between 
themselves  and  her.  '*  Yes,  yes,  I  am  in  their  way," 
she  repeated,  speaking  to  herself;  "but  before  long 
that  creature  will  not  be  in  mine  ;  the  lake,  God  will- 
ing, shall  have  her.  I'll  help  him  keep  his  word  as  a 
gentleman  ;  once  under  the  water,  she  has  nothing  to 
fear,  —  what  can  be  safer  than  that?" 

She  was  looking  fixedly  at  the  still  mirror  of  the 
little  lake  to  the  right  when  she  suddenly  heard  a  rust- 
ling among  the  rushes,  and  saw  in  the  moonlight  the 
face  of  Marche-k-Terre  rising  behind  the  gnarled  trunk 
of  an  old  willow.  None  but  those  who  knew  the 
Chouan  well  could  have  distinguished  him  from  the 
tangle  of  branches  of  which  he  seemed  a  part.  Ma- 
dame du  Gua  looked  about  her  with  some  distrust ;  she 
saw  the  postilion  leading  his  horses  to  a  stable  in  the 
wing  of  the  chateau  which  was  opposite  to  the  bank 
where  Marche-k-Terre  was  hiding;  Francine,  with  her 
back  to  her,  was  going  towards  the  two  lovers,  who  at 


160  The   Chouans. 

that  moment  had  forgotten  the  whole  earth.  Madame 
du  Gua,  with  a  finger  on  her  lip  to  demand  silence, 
walked  towards  the  Chouan,  who  guessed  rather  than 
heard  her  question,  '*  How  many  of  you  are  here?" 

"  Eighty-seven." 

"  They  are  sixt3'-five  ;  I  counted  them." 

'*  Good,"  said  the  savage,  with  sullen  satisfaction. 

Attentive  to  all  Francine's  movements,  the  Chouan 
disappeared  behind  the  willow,  as  he  saw  her  turn  to 
look  for  the  enemy  over  whom  she  was  keeping  an 
instinctive    watch. 

Six  or  eight  persons,  attracted  by  the  noise  of  the 
carriage-wheels,  came  out  on  the  portico,  shouting  :  "  It 
is  the  Gars  !  it  is  he  ;  here  he  is !  "  On  this  several 
other  men  ran  out,  and  their  coming  interrupted  the 
lovers.  The  Marquis  de  Montauran  went  hastily  up  to 
them,  making  an  imperative  gesture  for  silence,  and 
pointing  to  the  farther  end  of  the  causewav,  where 
the  Republican  escort  was  just  appearing.  At  the 
sight  of  the  well-known  blue  uniforms  with  red  facings, 
and  the  glittering  bayonets,  the  amazed  conspirators 
called  out  hastil}',  ''  You  have  sureh'  not  betraA'ed 
us?" 

''  If  I  had,  I  should  not  warn  you,"  said  the  marquis, 
smiling  bitterl3^  "Those  Blues,"  he  added,  after  a 
pause,  "are  the  escort  of  this  .young  lady,  whose  gener- 
osity has  delivered  us,  almost  miraculously',  from  a 
danger  we  were  in  at  Alen^on.  I  will  tell  you  about 
it  later.  Mademoiselle  and  her  escort  are  here  in 
safet}^  on  my  word  as  a  gentleman,  and  we  must  all 
receive  them  as  friends." 

Madame  du  Gua  and  Francine  were  now  on  the 
portico ;  the  marquis  offered  his  hand  to  Mademoiselle 


The   Chouans.  161 

de  Verneuil,  the  group  of  gentlemen  parted  in  two 
lines  to  allow  them  to  pass^  endeavoring,  as  they  did 
so,  to  catch  sight  of  the  young  lady's  features ;  for 
Madame  du  Gua.  who  was  following  behind,  excited 
their  curiosity  by  secret  signs. 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  saw,  with  surprise,  that  a 
large  table  was  set  in  the  first  hall,  for  about  twenty 
guests.  The  dining-room  opened  into  a  vast  salon,  where 
the  whole  party  were  presently  assembled.  These  rooms 
were  in  keeping  with  the  dilapidated  appearance  of  the 
outside  of  the  house.  The  walnut  panels,  polished  by 
age,  but  rough  and  coarse  in  design  and  badly  exe- 
cuted, were  loose  in  their  places  and  ready  to  fall. 
Their  dingy  color  added  to  the  gloom  of  these  apart- 
ments, which  were  barren  of  curtains  and  mirrors ;  a 
few  venerable  bits  of  furniture  in  the  last  stages  of 
decay  alone  remained,  and  harmonized  with  the  general 
destruction.  Marie  noticed  maps  and  plans  stretched 
out  upon  long  tables,  and  in  the  corners  of  the  room 
a  quantity  of  weapons  and  stacked  carbines..  These 
things  bore  witness,  though  she  did  not  know  it,  to 
an  important  conference  between  the  leaders  of  the 
Vendeans   and   those   of  the   Chouans. 

The  marquis  led  Mademoiselle  do*  Verneuil  to  a  large 
and  worm-eaten  armchair  placed  beside  the  fireplace  ; 
Francine  followed  and  stood  behind  her  mistress,  lean- 
ing on  the  back  of  that  ancient  bit  of  furniture. 

''You  will  allow  me  for  a  moment  to  play  the  part 
of  master  of  the  house,"  he  said^  leaving  the  two  women 
and  mingling  with  the  groups  of  his  other  guests. 

Francine  saw  the  gentlemen  hasten,  after  a  few  words 
from  Montauran,  to  hide  their  weapons,  maps,  and 
whatever  else  might  arouse  the  suspicions  of  the  Re- 

11 


162  The  Ohouans. 

publican  officers.  Some  took  off  their  broad  leather 
belts  containing  pistols  and  hunting-knives.  The  mar- 
quis requested  them  to  show  the  utmost  prudence,  and 
went  himself  to  see  to  the  reception  of  the  troublesome 
guests  whom  fate  had  bestowed  upon  him. 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  who  had  raised  her  feet  to 
the  fire  and  was  now  warming  them,  did  not  turn  her 
head  as  Montauran  left  the  room,  thus  disappointing 
those  present,  who  were  anxious  to  see  her.  Francine 
alone  saw  the  change  produced  on  the  company  b}^  the 
departure  of  the  young  chief.  The  gentlemen  gathered 
hastily  round  Madame  du  Gua,  and  during  a  conversa- 
tion carried  on  in  an  undertone  between  them,  they  all 
turned  several  times  to  look  curiously  at  the  stranger. 

"■  You  know  Montauran,"  Madame  du  Gua  said  to 
them ;  "■  he  has  fallen  in  love  with  that  worthless  girl, 
and,  as  you  can  easily  understand,  he  thinks  all  my 
warnings  selfish.  Our  friends  in  Paris,  Messieurs  de 
Valois  and  d'Esgrignon.  have  warned  him  of  a  trap  set 
for  him  by  throwing  some  such  creature  at  his  head ; 
but  in  spite  of  this  he  allows  himself  to  be  fooled  by  the 
first  woman  he  meets,  —  a  girl  who,  if  my  information  is 
correct,  has  stolen  a  great  name  only  to  disgrace  it." 

The  speaker,  in  whom  our  readers  have  already 
recognized  the  lady  -who  instigated  the  attack  on  the 
•■*  turgotine,"  may  be  allowed  to  keep  the  name  which 
she  used  to  escape  the  dangers  that  threatened  her  in 
Alen9on.  The  publication  of  her  real  name  would  onl}' 
mortify  a  noble  family  already  deeply  afflicted  at  the 
misconduct  of  this  woman ;  whose  history,  by  the  bye, 
has  already  been  given  on  another  scene. 

The  curiosity  manifested  by  the  company  of  men 
soon  became  impertinent  and  almost  hostile.     A  few 


The   Ohouans,  163 

harsh  words  reached  Francine's  ear.  and  after  a  word 
said  to  her  mistress  the  girl  retreated  into  the  embrasure 
of  a  window.  Marie  rose,  turned  towards  the  insolent 
group,  and  gave  them  a  look  full  of  dignity  and  even 
disdain.  Her  beauty,  the  elegance  of  her  manners,  and 
her  pride  changed  the  behavior  of  her  enemies,  and 
won  her  the  flattering  murmur  which  escaped  their  lips. 
Two  or  three  men,  whose  outward  appearance  seemed 
to  denote  the  habits  of  polite  society  and  the  gallantry 
acquired  in  courts,  came  towards  her  ;  but  her  propriety 
of  demeanor  forced  them  to  respect  her,  and  none  dared 
speak  to  her ;  so  that,  instead  of  being  herself  ar- 
raigned by  the  company,  it  was  she  who  appeared  to 
judge  of  them.  These  chiefs  of  a  war  undertaken  for 
God  and  the  king  bore  very  little  resemblance  to  the 
portraits  her  fancy  had  drawn  of  them.  The  struggle, 
really  great  in  itself,  shrank  to  mean  proportions  as  she 
observed  these  provincial  noblemen,  all,  with  one  or 
two  vigorous  exceptions,  devoid  of  significance  and  vi- 
rility. Having  made  to  herself  a  poem  of  such  heroes, 
Marie  suddenl}^  awakened  to  the  truth.  Their  faces 
expressed  to  her  e3"es  more  a  love  of  scheming  than  a 
love  of  glory ;  self-interest  had  evidently  put  arras  into 
their  hands.  Still,  it  must  be  said  that  these  men  did 
become  heroic  when  brought  into  action.  The  loss  of 
her  illusions  made  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  unjust,  and 
prevented  her  from  recognizing  the  real  devotion  which 
rendered  several  of  these  men  remarkable.  It  is  true 
that  most  of  those  now  present  were  commonplace.  A 
few  original  and  marked  faces  appeared  among  them, 
but  even  these  were  belittled  by  the  artificiality  and  the 
etiquette  of  aristocracy.  If  Marie  generously  granted 
intellect  and  perception  to  the  latter,  she  also  discerned 


164  The   Chouans, 

in  them  a  total  absence  of  the  simplicit}' ,  the  grandeur, 
to  which  she  had  been  accustomed  among  the  trium- 
phant men  of  the  Repubhc.  This  nocturnal  assemblage 
in  the  old  ruined  castle  made  her  smile ;  the  scene 
seemed  symbolic  of  the  monarch3^  But  the  thought 
came  to  her  with  delight  that  the  marquis  at  least 
played  a  noble  part  among  these  men,  whose  only  re- 
maining merit  in  her  eyes  was  devotion  to  a  lost  cause. 
She  pictured  her  lover's  face  upon  the  background  of 
this  company,  rejoicing  to  see  it  stand  forth  among 
those  paltry  and  puny  figures  who  were  but  the  instru- 
ments of  his  great  designs. 

The  footsteps  of  the  marquis  were  heard  m  the  ad- 
joining  room.  Instanth'  the  company  separated  into 
little  groups  and  the  whisperings  ceased.  Like  school- 
boys who  have  plotted  ^mischief  in  the  master's  absence, 
they  hurriedl}^  became  silent  and  orderlj',  Montauran 
entered  Marie  had  the  happiness  of  admiring  him 
among  his  fellows,  of  whom  he  was  the  3'oungest,  the 
handsomest,  and  the  chief.  Like  a  king  hi  his  court,  he 
went  from  group  to  group,  distributing  looks  and  nods 
and  words  of  encouragement  or  warning,  with  pressure 
of  the  hands  and  smiles  ;  doing  his  duty  as  leader  of  a 
party  with  a  grace  and  self-possession  hardly  to  be  ex 
pected  in  the  young  man  whom  Marie  had  so  lately 
accused  of  heedlessness. 

The  presence  of  the  marquis  put  an  end  to  the  open 
curiosity  bestowed  on  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  but 
Madame  du  Gua's  scandalous  suggestions  bore  fruit. 
The  Baron  du  Guenic,  familiarly  called  ''  ITntime," 
who  by  rank  and  name  had  the  best  right  among  those 
present  to  treat  Montauran  familiarly,  took  the  3*oung 
leader  by  the  arm  and  led  him  apart. 


The  Chouans.  165 

"  My  dear  marquis,"  he  said;  "  we  are  much  dis- 
turbed at  seeing  you  on  the  point  of  committing  an 
amazing  folly." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  " 

"  Do  you  know  where  that  girl  comes  from,  who  she 
is,  and  what  her  schemes  about  you  are?" 

"  Don't  trouble  yourself,  my  dear  Intime  ;  between 
you  and  me  my  fancy  for  her  will  be  over  to-morrow." 

*'Yes;  but  suppose  that  creature  betrays  you  to- 
night?" 

*'  I  '11  answer  that  when  you  tell  me  why  she  has  not 
done  it  already,"  said  Montauran,  assuming  with  a 
laugh  an  air  of  conceit.  "  My  dear  fellow,  look  at  that 
charming  girl,  watch  her  manners,  and  dare  to  tell  me 
she  is  not  a  woman  of  distinction.  If  she  gave  you  a 
few  favorable  looks  would  n't  you  feel  at  the  bottom  of 
your  soul  a  respect  for  her?  A  certain  lady  has  pre- 
judiced you.  I  will  tell  you  this  :  if  she  were  the  lost 
creature  our  friends  are  trying  to  make  her  out,  I 
would,  after  what  she  and  I  have  said  to  each  other, 
kill  her  myself" 

'<  Do  you  suppose,"  said  Madame  du  Gua,  joining 
them,  "  that  Fouche  is  fool  enough  to  send  you  a  com- 
mon prostitute  out  of  the  streets?  He  has  provided 
seductions  according  to  your  deserts.  You  may  choose 
to  be  blind,  but  your  friends  are  keeping  their  eyes 
open  to  protect  you." 

"Madame,"  replied  the  Gars,  his  eyes  flashing  with 
anger,  "be  warned;  take  no  steps  against  that  lady, 
nor  against  her  escort ;  if  you  do,  nothing  shall  save 
you  from  my  vengeance.  I  choose  that  Mademoi- 
selle de  Verneuil  be  treated  with  the  utmost  respect, 
and  as  a  lady  belonging  to  my  family.  We  are,  I 
believe,  related  to  the  de  Verneuils."' 


166  The   Chouans. 

The  opposition  the  marquis  was  made  to  feel  pro- 
duced the  usual  effect  of  such  obstacles  on  all  young 
men.  Though  he  had,  apparently-,  treated  Mademoi- 
selle de  Verneuil  rather  lightly,,  and  left  it  to  be  sup- 
posed that  his  passion  for  her  was  a  mere  caprice,  he 
now,  from  a  feeling  of  pride,  made  immense  strides  in 
his  relation  to  her.  By  openly  protecting  her,  his  honor 
became  concerned  in  compelling  respect  to  her  person  ; 
and  he  went  from  group  to»group  assuring  his  friends, 
in  the  tone  of  a  man  whom  it  was  dangerous  to  contra- 
dict, that  the  lady  was  really  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil. 
The  doubts  and  gossip  ceased  at  once.  As  soon  as 
Montauran  felt  that  harmony  was  restored  and  anxiet}^ 
allayed,  he  returned  to  his  mistress  eagerly,  saying 
in  a  low  voice :  — 

"Those  mischievous  people  have  robbed  me  of  an 
hour's  happiness." 

"I  am  glad  you  have  come  back  to  me,"  she 
said,  smiling.  "I  warn  3-ou  that  I  am  inquisitive; 
therefore  j'ou  must  not  get  tired  of  m^'  questions. 
Tell  me,  in  the  first  place,  who  is  that  worth}'  in  a 
green  cloth  jacket  ?  " 

"  That  is  the  famous  Major  Brigaut,  a  man  from  the 
Marais,  a  comrade  of  the  late  Mercier,  called  La 
Vendee." 

"  And  that  fat  priest  with  the  red  face  to  whom  he 
is  talking  at  this  moment  about  me?"  she  went  on. 
"Do  you  want  to  know  what  they  are  saying?" 
"  Do  I  want  to  know  it  ?    What  a  useless  question  ! " 
"  But  I  could  not  tell  it  without  offending  you." 
"  If  you  allow  me  to  be  insulted  in  your  house  with- 
out avenging  me,  marquis,  adieu  !  "  she  said.     "  I  will 
not  stay  another  moment.    I  have  some  qualms  already 


The   Chouans.  167 

about  deceiving  those  poor  Republicans,  loyal  and  con- 
fiding as  they  are  ! " 

She  made  a  few  hasty  steps ;  the  marquis  followed 
her. 

"Dear  Marie,  listen  to  me.  On  my  honor,  I  have 
silence(\  their  evil  speaking,  without  knowing  whether  it 
was  false  or  true.  But,  placed  as  I  am,  if  friends 
whom  we  have  in  all  the  ministries  in  Paris  warn  me 
to  beware  of  every  woman  I  meet,  and  assure  me  that 
Fouche  has  employed  against  me  a  Judith  of  the  streets, 
it  is  not  unnatural  that  my  best  friends  here  should 
think  you  too  beautiful  to  be  an  honest  woman." 

As  he  spoke  the  marquis  plunged  a  glance  into 
Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil's  eyes.  She  colored,  and  was 
unable  to  retrain  her  tears. 

"I  deserve  these  insults,"  she  said.  "I  wish  you 
really  thought  me  that  despicable  creature  and  still 
loved  me ;  then,  indeed,  I  could  no  longer  doubt  you. 
T  believed  in  you  when  you  were  deceiving  me,  and  you 
will  not  believe  me  now  when  I  am  true.  Let  us  make 
an  end  of  this,  monsieur,"  she  said,  frowning,  but  turn- 
ing pale  as  death,  —  "  adieu  !  " 

She  rushed  towards  the  dining-room  with  a  movement 
of  despair. 

"  Marie,  my  life  is  yours,"  said  the  young  marquis  in 
her  ear. 

She  stopped  short  and  looked  at  him. 

"No,  no,"  she  said,  "  I  will  be  generous.  Farewell. 
In  coming  with  you  here  I  did  not  think  of  my  past  nor 
of  your  future  —  I  was  beside  myself." 

' '  You  cannot  mean  that  you  will  leave  me  now  when 
I  offer  you  my  life  ?  " 

"  You  offer  it  in  a  moment  of  passion  —  of  desire." 


168  The   ChouanB. 

"  I  offer  it  without  regret,  and  forever,"  he  replied. 

She  returned  to  the  room  they  had  left.  Hiding  his 
emotions  the  marquis  continued  the  conversation. 

"  That  fat  priest  whose  name  3'ou  asked  is  the  Abbe 
Gudin,  a  Jesuit,  obstinate  enough  —  perhaps  I  ought  to 
say  devoted  enough,  —  to  remain  in  France  in  spite  of 
the  decree  of  1793,  which  banished  his  order.  He  is 
the  firebrand  of  the  war  in  these  regions  and  a  propa- 
gandist of  the  religious  association  called  the  Sacr6- 
Coeur.  Trained  to  use  religion  as  an  instrument,  he 
persuades  his  followers  that  if  they  are  killed  they  will 
be  brought  to  life  again,  and  he  knows  how  to  rouse 
their  fanaticism  by  shrewd  sermons.  You  see,  it  is 
necessary  to  work  upon  every  man's  selfish  interests  to 
attain  a  great  end.  That  is  the  secret  of  all  political 
success." 

"And  that  vigorous,  muscular  old  man,  with  the 
repulsive  face,  who  is  he?  I  mean  the  one  in  the 
ragged  gown  of  a  barrister." 

"  Barrister  !  he  aspires  to  be  considered  a  brigadier- 
general.     Did  you  never  hear  of  de  Longuy  ?  " 

"  Is  that  he  !  "  exclaimed  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil, 
horrified.     "  You  employ  such  men  as  that?" 

"  Hush  !  he  '11  hear  you.  Do  you  see  that  other  man 
in  malignant  conversation  with  Madame  du  Gua?" 

"  The  one  in  black  who  looks  like  a  judge?" 

"  That  is  one  of  our  go-betweens,  La  Billardiere,  son 
of  a  councillor  to  the  Breton  Parliament,  whose  real 
name  is  something  like  Flamet ;  he  is  in  close  corre- 
spondence with  the  princes." 

"  And  his  neighbor?  the  one  who  is  just  putting  up 
his  white  clay  pipe,  and  uses  all  the  fingers  of  his  right 
hand  to  snap  the  box,  like  a  countryman." 


The   Chouans.  169 

*'  By  Jove,  you  are  right ;  he  was  game-keeper  to  the 
deceased  husband  of  that  lady,  and  now  commands  one 
of  the  companies  I  send  against  the  Republican  militia. 
He  and  Marche-a-Terre  are  the  two  most  conscientious 
vassals  the  king  has  here." 

"But  she  —  who  is  she ? " 

"  Charette's  last  mistress,"  replied  the  marquis. 
*'  She  wields  great  influence  over  all  these  people." 

"  Is  she  faithful  to  his  Qiemory  ?  " 

For  all  answer  the  marquis  gave  a  dubious  smile. 

*'  Do  3'ou  think  well  of  her?  " 

''You  are  very  inquisitive." 

"  She  is  my  enem}'  because  she  can  no  longer  be  my 
rival,"  said  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  laughing.  "I 
forgive  her  her  past  errors  if  she  forgives  mine.  Who 
is  that  officer  with  the  long  moustache?" 

"  Permit  me  not  to  name  him ;  he  wants  to  get  rid  of 
the  First  Consul  by  assassination.  Whether  he  suc- 
ceeds or  not  you  will  hear  of  him.  He  is  certain  to 
become  famous." 

"  And  you  have  come  here  to  command  such  me«  as 
these!"  she  exclaimed  in  horror.  "Are  they  the 
king's  defenders  ?  Where  are  the  gentlemen  and  the 
great  lords  ?  " 

"  Where?"  said  the  marquis,  coolly,  "  they  are  in  all 
the  courts  of  Europe.  Who  else  should  win  over  kings 
and  cabinets  and  armies  to  serve  the  Bourbon  cause  and 
hurl  them  at  that  Republic  which  threatens  monarchies 
and  social  order  with  death  and  destruction  ?  " 

"  Ah  ! "  she  said,  with  generous  emotion,  "be  to  me 
henceforth  the  source  from  which  I  draw  the  ideas  I 
must  still  acquire  about  your  cause  —  I  consent.  But 
let  me  still  remember  that  you  are  the  only  noble  who 


170  The   Ohouans. 

does  his  duty  in  fighting  France  with  Frenchmen,  with- 
out the  help  of  foreigners.  I  am  a  woman  ;  I  feel  that 
if  my  child  struck  me  in  anger  I  could  forgive  him ;  but 
if  he  saw  me  beaten  by  a  stranger  and  consented  to  it, 
I  should  regard  him  as  a  monster." 

"You  shall  remain  a  Republican/'  said  the  marquis, 
in  the  ardor  produced  by  the  generous  words  which 
confirmed  his  hopes. 

' '  Republican  !  no,  I  am  that  no  longer.  I  could  not 
now  respect  you  if  you  submitted  to  the  First  Consul," 
she  replied.  "  But  neither  do  I  like  to  see  you  at  the 
head  of  men  who  are  pillaging  a  corner  of  France,  in- 
stead of  making  war  against  the  whole  Republic.  For 
whom  are  you  fighting  ?  What  do  3'ou  expect  of  a  king 
restored  to  his  throne  by  your  efforts  ?  A  woman  did 
that  great  thing  once,  and  the  liberated  king  allowed 
her  to  be  burned.  Such  men  are  the  anointed  of  the 
Lord,  and  there  is  danger  in  mec^dling  with  sacred 
things.  Let  God  take  care  of  his  own,  and  place,  dis- 
place, and  replace  them  on  their  purple  seats.  But  if 
you  'have  counted  the  cost,  and  seen  the  poor  return 
that  will  come  to  you,  you  are  tenfold  greater  in  my 
eyes  than  I  thought  you  —  " 

"  Ah  !  you  are  bewitching.  Don't  attempt  to  indoc- 
trinate my  followers,  or  I  shall  be  left  without  a  man." 

''If  3'ou  would  let  me  convert  you,  only  you,"  she 
said,  "  we  might  live  happily  a  thousand  leagues  away 
from  all  this." 

''  These  men  whom  you  seem  to  despise,"  said  the 
marquis,  in  a  graver  tone,  "  will  know  how  to  die  when 
the  struggle  comes,  and  all  their  misdeeds  will  be  for- 
gotten. Besides,  if  mj'  eflTorts  are  crowned  with  some 
success,  the  laurel  leaves  of  victor}^  will  hide  all." 


The  Ohouans.  171 

''  I  see  no  one  but  you  who  is  risking  an}' thing." 

.*'  You  are  mistaken  ;  I  am  not  the  onh'  one,"  he  re- 
plied, with  true  modesty.  "See,  over  there,  the  new 
leaders  from  La  Vendee.  The  first,  whom  you  must 
have  heard  of  as  '  Le  Grand  eJacques,'  is  the  Comte  de 
Fontaine ;  the  other  is  La  Billardi^re,  whom  I  men- 
tioned to  3"ou  just  now." 

"  Have  you  forgotten  Quiberon,  where  La  Billardiere 
played  so  equivocal  a  part?"  she  said,  struck  by  a 
sudden  recollection. 

*'  La  Billardiere  took  a  great  deal  upon  himself 
Serving  princes  is  far  from  lying  on  a  bed  of  roses." 

"  Ah  !  you  make  me  shudder  !  "  cried  Marie.  '^  Mar- 
quis," she  continued,  in  a  tone  which  seemed  to  indicate 
some  mysterious  personal  reticence,  ' '  a  single  instant 
suffices  to  destroy  illusions  and  to  betray  secrets  on 
which  the  life  and  happiness  of  many  may  depend  —  " 
she  stopped,  as  though  she  feared  she  had  said  too 
much  ;  then  she  added,  in  another  tone,  "  I  wish  I  could 
be  sure  that  those  Republican  soldiers  were  in  safety." 

"  I  will  be  prudent,"  he  said,  smiling  to  disguise  his 
emotion  ;  "  but  say  no  more  about  your  soldiers  ;  have 
I  not  answered  for  their  safety  on  my  word  as  a 
gentleman  ?  " 

"And  after  all,"  she  said,  "what  right  have  I  to 
dictate  to  you?  Be  my  master  henceforth.  Did  I  not 
tell  you  it  would  drive  me  to  despair  to  rule  a  slave  ?  " 

"  Monsieur  le  marquis,"  said  Major  Brigaut,  respect- 
full}^  interrupting  the  conversation,  "  how  long  are  the 
Blues  to  remain  here?  " 

"  They  will  leave  as  soon  as  they  are  rested,"  said 
Marie. 

The  marquis  looked  about  the  room  and  noticed  the 


172  The  Chouans, 

agitation  of  those  present.  He  left  Mademoiselle  de 
Verneuil,  and  his  place  beside  her  was  at  once  taken  by 
Madame  du  Gua,  whose  smiling  and  treacherous  face 
was  in  no  way  disconcerted  by  the  young  chief's  bitter 
smile.  Just  then  Francine,  standing  by  the  window, 
gave  a  stifled  cry.  Marie,  noticing  with  amazement 
that  the  girl  left  the  room,  looked  at  Madame  du  Gua, 
and  her  surprise  increased  as  she  saw  the  pallor  on  the 
face  of  her  enemy.  Anxious  to  discover  the  meaning 
of  Francine's  abrupt  departure,  she  went  to  the  window, 
where  Madame  du  Gua  followed  her,  no  doubt  to  guaM 
against  an}'  susi3icions  which  might  arise  in  her  mind. 
The}'  returned  together  to  the  chimnej',  after  each  had 
cast  a  look  upon  the  shore  and  the  lake,  —  Marie  with- 
out seeing  anything  that  could  have  caused  Francine's 
flight,  Madame  du  Gua  seeing  that  which  satisfied  her 
she  was  being  obeyed. 

The  lake,  at  the  edge  of  which  Marche-a-Terre  had 
shown  his  head,  where  Madame  du  Gua  had  seen  him, 
joined  the  moat  in  mistj^  curves,  sometimes  broad  as 
ponds,  in  other  places  narrow  as  the  artificial  stream- 
lets of  a  park.  The  steep  bank,  washed  by  its  waters, 
lay  a  few  rods  from  the  window.  Francine,  watching 
on  the  surface  of  the  water  the  black  lines  thrown  b}' 
the  willows,  noticed,  carelessly  at  first,  the  uniform 
trend  of  their  branches,  caused  by  a  light  breeze  then 
prevailing.  Suddenly  she  thought  she  saw  against  the 
glassy  surface  a  figure  moving  with  the  spontaneous  and 
irregular  motion  of  life.  The  form,  vague  as  it  was, 
seemed  to  her  that  of  a  man.  At  first  she  attributed 
what  she  saw  to  the  play  of  the  moonhght  upon  the 
foliage,  but  presently  a  second  head  appeared,  then 
several  others  in  the  distance.    The  shrubs  upon  the  bank 


The   Chouans.  173 

were  bent  and  then  violently  straightened,  and  Fran- 
cine  saw  the  long  hedge  undulating  like  one  of  those 
great  Indian  serpents  of  fabulous  size  and  shape.  Here 
and  there,  among  the  gorse  and  taller  brambles,  points 
of  light  could  be  seen  to  come  and  go.  The  girl's  at- 
tention redoubled,  and  she  thought  she  recognized  the 
foremost  of  the  dusk}^  figures  ;  indistinct  as  its  outlines 
were,  the  beating  of  her  heart  convinced  her  it  was  no 
other  than  her  lover,  Marche-k-Terre.  Eager  to  know 
if  this  mysterious  approach  meant  treachery,  she  ran  to 
the  courtyard.  When  she  reached  the  middle  of  its 
grass  plot  she  looked  alternately  at  the  two  wings  of 
the  building  and  along  the  steep  shores,  without  dis- 
covering, on  the  inhabited  side  of  the  house,  any  sign 
of  this  silent  approach.  She  listened  attentivel}'  and 
heard  a  slight  rustling,  like  that  which  might  be  made 
by  the  footfalls  of  some  wild  animal  in  the  silence  of 
the  forest.  She  quivered,  but  did  not  tremble.  Though 
young  and  innocent,  her  anxious  curiosity  suggested  a 
ruse.  She  saw  the  coach  and  slipped  into  it,  putting 
out  her  head  to  listen,  with  the  caution  of  a  hare  giving 
ear  to  the  sound  of  the  distant  hunters.  She  saw  Pille- 
Miche  come  out  of  the  stable,  accompanied  by  two 
peasants,  all  three  carrying  bales  of  straw ;  these  they 
spread  on  the  ground  in  a  way  to  form  a  long  bed 
of  litter  before  the  inhabited  wing  of  the  house,  parallel 
with  the  bank,  bordered  by  dwarf  trees. 

"You're  spreading  straw  as  if  you  thought  they'd 
sleep  here  !  Enough,  Pille-Miche,  enough  !  "  said  a  low, 
gruff  voice,  which  Francine  recognized. 

"  And  won't  they  sleep  here?  "  returned  Pille-Miche 
with  a  laugh.  "  I  'm  afraid  the  Gars  will  be  angry  !  " 
he  added,  too  low  for  Francine  to  hear. 


174  The   Ohouans. 

' '  Well,  let  him,"  said  Marche-a-Terre,  in  the  same 
tone,  "  we  shall  have  killed  the  Blues  an3'way.  Here's 
that  coach,  which  }  ou  and  I  had  better  put  up." 

Pille-Miche  pulled  the  carriage  by  the  pole  and 
Marche-a-Terre  pushed  it  b}^  one  of  the  wheels  with 
such  force  that  Francine  was  in  the  barn  and  about 
to  be  locked  up  there  before  she  had  time  to  reflect  on 
her  situation.  Pille-Miche  went  out  to  fetch  the  barrel 
of  cider,  which  the  marquis  had  ordered  for  the  escort ; 
and  Marche-a-Terre  was  passing  along  the  side  of  the 
coach,  to  leave  the  barn  and  close  the  door,  when  he 
was  stopped  by  a  hand  which  caught  and  held  the  long 
hair  of  his  goatskin.  He  recognized  a  pair  of  eyes  the 
gentleness  of  which  exercised  a  power  of  magnetism 
over  him,  and  he  stood  stock-still  for  a  moment  under 
their  spell.  Francine  sprang  from  the  carriage,  and 
said,  in  the  nervous  voice  of  an  excited  woman : 
''  Pierre,  what  news  did  you  give  to  that  lady  and  her 
son  on  the  road?  What  is  going  on  here?  Wh}' 
are   3^ou   hiding?     I   must   know   all." 

These  words  brought  a  look  on  the  Chouan's  face 
which  Francine  had  never  seen  there  before.  The  Bre- 
ton led  his  innocent  mistress  to  the  door ;  there  he 
turned  her  towards  the  blanching  light  of  the  moon, 
and  answered,  as  he  looked  in  her  face  with  terrifj-- 
ing  eyes:  "Yes,  by  my  damnation,  Francine,  I  will 
tell  you,  but  not  until  3^ou  have  sworn  on  these  beads 
(and  he  pulled  an  old  chaplet  from  beneath  his 
goatskin) — on  this  relic,  which  you  know  well,"  he 
continued,    "to   answer   me   truly   one   question." 

Francine  colored  as  she  saw  the  chaplet,  which  was 
no  doubt  a  token  of  their  love.  "It  was  on  that," 
he  added,  much  agitated,  "that  3'ou  swore  —  " 


The   Chouans.  175 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  The  young  girl 
placed  her  hand  on  the  Hps  of  her  savage  lover  and 
silenced  him. 

"  Need  I  swear?"  she  said. 

He  took  his  mistress  gently  by  the  hand,  looked  at 
her  for  a  moment  and  said  :  "  Is  the  lady  you  are  with 
really  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil?" 

Francine  stood  with  hanging  arms,  her  eyelids 
lowered,  her  head  bowed,  pale  and  speechless. 

"She  is  a  strumpet!"  cried  Marche-a-Terre,  in  a 
terrifying-  voice. 

At  the  word  the  pretty  hand  once  more  covered  his 
lips,  but  this  time  he  sprang  back  violently.  The 
girl  no  longer  saw  a  lover ;  he  had  turned  to  a  wild 
beast  in  all  the  fury  of  its  nature.  His  eyebrows  were 
drawn  together,  his  lips  drew  a^art,  and  he  showed  his 
teeth  like  a  dog  which  defends  its  master. 

"  I  left  you  pure,  and  I  find  you  muck.  Ha!  why 
did  I  ever  leave  you !  You  are  here  to  betray  us  ;  to 
deliver  up  the  Gars  !  " 

These  sentences  sounded  more  like  roars  than  words 
Though  Francine  was  frightened,  she  raised  her  angelic 
eyes  at  this  last  accusation  and  answered  calmly,  as  she 
looked  into  his  savage  face  :  "  I  will  pledge  my  eternal 
safety  that  that  is  false.  That's  an  idea  of  the  lady 
3^ou  are  serving." 

He  lowered  his  head ;  then  she  took  his  hand  and 
nestling  to  him  with  a  pretty  movement  said :  "  Pierrer 
what  is  all  this  to  you  and  me?  I  don't  know  what 
you  understand  about  it,  but  I  can't  make  it  out. 
Recollect  one  thing :  that  noble  and  beautiful  young 
lady  has  been  my  benefactress ;  she  is  also  yours  — 
we  live  together  like  two  sisters.     No  harm  must  evQr 


176  The  Chouans. 

come  to  her  where  we  are,  you  and  I  —  in  our  lifetime 
at  least.     Swear  it !     I  trust  no  one  here  but  3'ou." 

'*  I  don't  command  here,"  said  the  Chouan,  in  a  surly 
tone. 

His  face  darkened.  She  caught  his  long  ears  and 
twisted  them  gently  as  if  placing  with  a  cat. 

"  At  least,"  she  said,  seeing  that  he  looked  less  stern, 
"  promise  me  to  use  all  the  power  you  have  to  protect 
our  benefactress." 

He  shook  his  head  as  if  he  doubted  of  success,  and 
the  motion  made  her  tremble.  At  this  critical  moment 
the  escort  was  entering  the  courtyard.  The  tread  of 
the  soldiers  and  the  rattle  of  their  weapons  awoke  the 
echoes  and  seemed  to  put  an  end  to  Marche-a-Terre's 
indecision. 

"Perhaps  I  can  save  her,"  he  said,  "if  you  make 
her  stay  in  the  house.  And  mind,"  he  added,  "  what- 
ever happens,  you  must  stay  with  her  and  keep  silence  ; 
if  not,  no  safety." 

"  I  promise  it,"  she  replied  in  terror. 

"Very  good;  then  go  in  —  go  in  at  once,  and  hide 
3'our  fears  from  every  one,  even  your  mistress." 

"Yes." 

She  pressed  his  hand  ;  he  stood  a  moment  watching 
her  with  an  almost  paternal  air  as  she  ran  with  the  light- 
ness of  a  bird  up  the  portico ;  then  he  slipped  behind 
the  bushes,  like  an  actor  darting  behind  the  scenes  as 
the  curtain  rises  on  a  tragedy. 

"  Do  you  know,  Merle,"  said  Gerard  as  they 
reached  the  chateau,  "  that  this  place  looks  to  me  like 
a  mousetrap?" 

"  So  I  think,"  said  the  captain,  anxiously. 

The  two  officers  hastened  to  post  sentinels  to  guard 


The   Chouans.  177 

the  gate  and  the  causeway  ;  then  thej^  examined  with 
great  distrust  the  precipitous  banks  of  the  lakes  and 
the  surroundings  of  the  chateau. 

"Pooh!"  said  Merle,  "we  must  do  one  of  two 
things :  either  trust  ourselves  in  this  barrack  with  per- 
fect confidence,  or  else  not  enter  it  at  all." 

"  Come,  let 's  go  in,"  replied  Gerard. 

The  soldiers,  released  at  the  word  of  command,  has- 
tened to  stack  their  muskets  in  conical  sheaves,  and  to 
form  a  sort  of  line  before  the  litter  of  straw,  in  the  mid- 
dle of  which  was  the  promised  barrel  of  cider.  The}' 
then  divided  into  groups,  to  whom  two  peasants  began  to 
distribute  butter  and  rye-bread.  The  marquis  appeared 
in  the  portico  to  welcome  the  oflficers  and  take  them  to 
the  salon.  As  Gerard  went  up  the  steps  he  looked  at 
both  ends  of  the  portico,  where  some  venerable  larches 
spread  their  black  branches ;  and  he  called  up  Clef-des- 
Cceurs  and  Beau-Pied. 

"  You  will  each  reconnoitre  the  gardens  and  search 
the  bushes,  and  post  a  sentry  before  your  line." 

"  May  we  light  our  fire  before  starting,  adjutant?" 
asked  Clef-des-Coeurs. 

Gerard  nodded. 

"There!  you  see,  Clef-des-Coeurs,"  said  Beau-Pied, 
"  the  adjutant 's  wrong  to  run  himself  into  this  wasp's- 
nest.  If  Hulot  was  in  command  we  should  n't  be  cor- 
nered here  —  in  a  saucepan  !  " 

"What  a  stupid  you  are !"  replied  Clef-des-Coeurs, 
"  have  n't  you  guessed,  you  knave  of  tricks,  that  this  is 
the  home  of  the  beaut}'  our  jovial  Merle  has  been  whist- 
ling round?  He'll  marry  her  to  a  certainty  —  that's 
as  clear  as  a  well-rubbed  ba3'onet.  A  woman  like  that 
will  do  honor  to  the  brigade." 

12 


178  The  Chouans. 

"  True  for  you,"  replied  Beau-Pied,  ''  and  you  may 
add  that  she  gives  pretty  good  cider  —  but  I  can't  drink 
it  in  peace  till  I  know  what 's  behind  those  devilish 
hedges.  I  always  remember  poor  Larose  and  Vieux- 
Chapeau  rolling  down  the  ditch  at  La  Pelerine.  I  shall 
recollect  Larose's  queue  to  the  end  of  m}^  da3's ;  it  went 
hammering  down  like  the  knocker  of  a  front  door." 

"  Beau-Pied,  my  friend;  you  have  too  much  imagi- 
nation for  a  soldier ;  3'ou  ought  to  be  making  songs  at 
the  national  Institute." 

"  If  I  've  too  much  imagination,"  retorted  Beau- 
Pied,  "you  haven't  any;  it  will  take  you  some  time 
to  get  3'Our  degree  as  consul." 

A  general  laugh  put  an  end  to  the  discussion,  for 
Clef-des-Cceurs  found  no  suitable  reply  in  his  pouch 
with  which  to  floor  his  adversary. 

*'  Come  and  make  our  rounds ;  I'll  go  to  the  right," 
said  Beau -Pied. 

"  Very  good,  I  '11  take  the  left,"  replied  his  comrade. 
"  But  stop  one  minute,  I  must  have  a  glass  of  cider; 
my  throat  is  glued  together  like  the  oiled-silk  of  Hulot's 
best  hat." 

The  left  bank  of  the  gardens,  which  Clef-des-Cceurs 
thus  dela^'ed  searching  at  once,  was,  unhappilj',  the  dan- 
gerous slope  where  Francine  had  seen  the  moving  line 
of  men.     All  things  go  b}^  chance  in  war. 

As  Gerard  entered  the  salon  and  bowed  to  the  com- 
pany he  cast  a  penetrating  eye  on  the  men  who  were 
present.  Suspicions  came  forcibly  to  his  mind,  and  he 
went  at  once  to  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  and  said  in 
a  low  voice  :  "  I  think  you  had  better  leave  this  place 
immediatel3\     We  are  not  safe  here." 

"  What  can  3'ou  fear  while  I  am  with  3'ou?"  she  an- 


The   Chouans,  179 

swered,  laughing.  "  You  are  safer  here  than  you  would 
be  at  IVJRiyenne." 

•  A  woman  answers  for  her  lover  in  good  faith.  The 
two  officers  were  reassured.  The  party  now  moved  into 
the  dining-room  after  some  discussion  about  a  guest, 
apparently  of  some  importance,  who  had  not  appeared. 
Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  was  able,  thanks  to  the  silence 
which  always  reigns  at  the  beginning  of  a  meal,  to  give 
some  attention  to  the  character  of  the  assemblage,  which 
was  curious  enough  under  existing  circumstances.  One 
thing  struck  her  with  surprise.  The  Republican  officers 
seemed  superior  to  the  rest  of  the  assembly  by  reason 
of  their  dignified  appearance.  Their  long  hair  tied  be- 
hind in  a  queue  drew  lines  beside  their  foreheads  which 
gave,  in  those  days,  an  expression  of  great  candor  and 
nobleness  to  young  heads.  Their  threadbare  blue  uni- 
forms with  the  shabby  red  facings,  even  their  epaulets 
flung  back  behind  their  shoulders  (a  sign  throughout 
the  army,  even  among  the  leaders,  of  a  lack  of  over- 
coats),—  all  these  things  brought  the  two  Republican 
officers  into  strong  relief  against  the  men  who  sur- 
rounded them. 

''Oh,  they  are  the  Nation,  and  that  means  liberty!" 
thought  Marie  ;  then,  with  a  glance  at  the  royalists,  she 
added,  "  on  the  other  side  is  a  man,  a  king,  and  privi- 
leges." She  could  not  refrain  from  admiring  Merle,  so 
thoroughly  did  that  gay  soldier  respond  to  the  ideas  she 
had  formed  of  the  French  trooper  who  hums  a  tune  when 
the  balls  are  whistling,  and  jests  when  a  comrade  falls. 
Gerard  was  more  imposing.  Grave  and  self-possessed, 
he  seemed  to  have  one  of  those  trul}'  Republican  spirits 
which,  in  the  days  of  which  we  write,  crowded  the  French 
armies,  and  gave  them,  by  means  of  these  noble  indi- 


180  The   Chouam. 

vidual  devotions,  an  energy  they  had  never  before  pos- 
sessed. "  That  is  one  of  m}'  men  with  great  ideals,'* 
thought  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil.  "Relying  on  the 
present,  which  they  rule,  they  destroy  the  past  for  the 
benefit  of  the  future." 

The  thought  saddened  her  because  she  could  not  ap- 
ply it  to  her  lover ;  towards  whom  she  now  turned,  to 
discard  by  a  different  admiration,  these  beliefs  in  the 
Republic  she  was  already  beginning  to  dislike.  Look- 
ing at  the  marquis,  surrounded  b}'  men  who  were  bold 
enough,  fanatical  enough, and  sufficiently  long-headed  as 
to  the  future  to  give  battle  to  a  victorious  Republic  in 
the  hope  of  restoring  a  dead  monarch}-,  a  proscribed 
religion,  fugitive  princes,  and  lost  privileges,  "He," 
thought  she,  "  has  no  less  an  aim  than  the  others ; 
clinging  to  those  fragments,  he  wants  to  make  a  future 
from  the  past."  Her  mind,  thus  grasped  by  conflicting 
images,  hesitated  between  the  new  and  the  old  wrecks. 
Her  conscience  told  her  that  the  one  was  fighting  for  a 
man,  the  other  for  a  country  ;  but  she  had  now  reached, 
through  her  feelings,  the  point  to  which  reason  will  also 
bring  us,  namely  :  to  a  recognition  that  the  king  is  the 
Nation. 

The  steps  of  a  man  echoed  in  the  adjoining  room,  and 
the  marquis  rose  from  the  table  to  greet  him.  He 
proved  to  be  the  expected  guest,  and  seeing  the  as- 
sembled company  he  was  about  to  speak, when  the  Gars 
made  him  a  hasty  sign,  which  he  concealed  from  the  Re- 
publicans, to  take  his  place  and  say  nothing.  The  more 
the  two  oflScers  analyzed  the  faces  about  them,  the  more 
their  suspicions  increased.  The  clerical  dress  of  the 
Abb4  Gudin  and  the  singularity  of  the  Chouan  gar- 
ments were  so  many  warnings  to  them ;  they  redoubled 


The  Chouans,  181 

their  watchfulness,  and  soon  discovered  many  discre- 
pancies between  the  manners  of  the  guests  and  the  topics 
of  their  conversation.  The  republicanism  of  some  was 
quite  as  exaggerated  as  the  aristocratic  bearing  of  others 
was  unmistakable.  Certain  glances  which  the3'  detected 
between  the  marquis  and  his  guests,  certain  words  of 
double  meaning  imprudently  uttered,  but  above  all  the 
fringe  of  beard  which  was  round  the  necks  of  several  of 
the  men  and  was  very  ill-concealed  by  their  cravats, 
brought  the  oflScers  at  last  to  a  full  conviction  of  the 
truth,  which  flashed  upon  their  minds  at  the  same  in- 
stant. They  gave  each  other  one  look,  for  Madame  du 
Gua  had  cleverly  separated  them  and  they  could  only 
impart  their  thoughts  by  their  eyes.  Such  a  situation 
demanded  the  utmost  caution.  They  did  not  know 
whether  they  and  their  men  were  masters  of  the  situa- 
tion, or  whether  they  had  been  drawn  into  a  trap,  or 
whether  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  was  the  dupe  or  the 
accomplice  of  this  inexplicable  state  of  things.  But  an 
unforeseen  event  precipitated  a  crisis  before  they  had 
fully  recognized  the  gravity  of  their  situation. 

The  new  guest  was  one  of  those  solid  men  who  are 
square  at  the  base  and  square  at  the  shoulders,  with 
rudd}'  skins  ;  men  who  lean  backward  when  they  walk, 
seeming  to  displace  much  atmosphere  about  them,  and 
who  appear  to  think  that  more  than  one  glance  of  the 
eye  is  needful  to  take  them  in.  Notwithstanding  his 
rank,  he  had  taken  life  as  a  joke  from  which  he  was  to 
get  as  much  amusement  as  possible  ;  and  3"et,  although 
he  knelt  at  his  own  shrine  only,  he  was  kind,  polite, 
and  witty,  after  the  fashion  of  those  noblemen  who, 
having  finished  their  training  at  court,  return  to  live  on 
their  estates,  and  never  suspect  that  the}'  have,  at  the 


182  The  Chouam. 

end  of  twenty  years,  grown  rusty.  Men  of  this  type 
fail  in  tact  with  imperturbable  coolness,  talk  folly  wit- 
tily, distrust  good  with  extreme  shrewdness,  and  take 
incredible  pains  to  fall  into  traps. 

When,  by  a  play  of  his  knife  and  fork  which  pro- 
claimed him  a  good  feeder,  he  had  made  up  for  lost 
time,  he  began  to  look  round  on  the  company.  His 
astonishment  was  great  when  he  observed  the  two 
Republican  officers,  and  he  questioned  Madame  du  Gua 
with  a  look,  while  she,  for  all  answer,  showed  him 
Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  in  the  same  way.  When  he 
saw  the  siren  whose  demeanor  had  silenced  the  suspi- 
cions Madame  du  Gua  had  excited  among  the  guests, 
the  face  of  the  stout  stranger  broke  into  one  of  those 
insolent,  satirical  smiles  which  contain  a  whole  histor^^ 
of  scandal.  He  leaned  to  his  next  neighbor  and  whis- 
pered a  few  words,  which  went  from  ear  to  ear  and  lip 
to  lip,  passing  Marie  and  the  two  officers,  until  they 
reached  the  heart  of  one  whom  they  struck  to  death. 
The  leaders  of  the  Vendeans  and  the  Chouans  assembled 
round  that  table  looked  at  the  Marquis  de  Monlauran 
with  cruel  curiosity.  The  eyes  of  Madame  du  Gua, 
flashing  with  joy,  turned  from  the  marquis  to  Made- 
moiselle de  Verneuil,  who  was  speechless  with  surprise. 
The  Republican  officers,  uneasy  in  mind,  questioned 
each  other's  thoughts  as  they  awaited  the  result  of  this 
extraordinary  scene.  In  a  moment  the  forks  remained 
inactive  in  every  hand,  silence  reigned,  and  every  eye 
was  turned  to  the  Gars.  A  frightful  anger  showed 
upon  his  face,  which  turned  waxen  in  tone.  He  leaned 
towards  the  guest  from  whom  the  rocket  had  started 
and  said,  in  a  voice  that  seemed  muffled  in  crape, 
**  Death  of  my  soul !  count,  is  that  true?  " 


The   Chouans.  188 

"  On  my  honor,"  said  the  count,  bowing  grsively. 

The  marquis  lowered  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  then 
he  raised  them  and  looked  fixedly  at  Marie,  who,  watch, 
ful  of  his  struggle,  knew  that  look  to  be  her  death- 
warrant. 

"  I  would  give  my  life,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  for 
revenge  on  the  spot." 

Madame  du  Gua  understood  the  words  from  the  mere 
movement  of  the  young  man's  lips,  and  she  smiled  upon 
him  as  we  smile  at  a  friend  whose  regrets  are  about  to 
cease.  The  scorn  felt  for  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil 
and  shown  on  fjvery  face,  brought  to  its  height  the 
growing  indignation  of  the  two  Republicans,  who  now 
rose  hastily  :  — 

"  Do  you  want  anything,  citizens  ? "  asked  Madame 
du  Gua. 

"  Our  swords,  citoyenne"  said  Gerard,  sarcastically. 

'*  You  do  not  need  them  at  table,"  said  the  marquis, 
coldly. 

•■'No,  but  we  are  going  to  play  at  a  game  you  know 
very  well,"  replied  Gerard.  "  This  is  La  Pelerine  over 
again." 

The  whole  party  seemed  dumfounded.  Just  then  a 
volley,  fired  with  terrible  regularity,  echoed  through 
the  courtyard.  The  two  oflScers  sprang  to  the  portico  ; 
there  they  beheld  a  hundred  or  so  of  Chouans  aiming 
at  the  few  soldiers  who  were  not  shot  down  at  the  first 
discharge  ;  these  the}'  fired  upon  as  upon  so  many  hares. 
The  Bretons  swarmed  from  the  bank,  where  Marche-^- 
Terre  had  posted  them  at  the  peril  of  their  lives ;  for 
after  the  last  volley,  and  mingling  with  the  cries  of  the 
dying,  several  Chouans  were  heard  to  fall  into  the  lake, 
where  they  were  lost  like  stones  in  a  gulf.     Pille-Miche 


184  The  Chouans. 

took  aim  at  Gerard ;  Marche-a-Terre  held  Merle  at  his 
mercy. 

*'  Captain,"  said  the  marquis  to  Merle,  repeating  to 
the  Republican  his  own  words,  "you  see  that  men  are 
like  medlars,  they  ripen  on  the  straw."  He  pointed  with 
a  wave  of  his  hand  to  the  entire  escort  of  the  Blues  lying 
on  the  blood}'  litter  where  the  Chouans  were  despatch- 
ing those  who  still  breathed,  and  rifling  the  dead  bodies 
with  incredible  rapiditj- .  ' '  I  was  right  when  I  told  you 
that  your  soldiers  would  not  get  as  far  as  La  Pelerine, 
I  think,  moreover,  that  your  head  will  fill  with  lead 
before  mine.     What  say  you?"  • 

Montauran  felt  a  horrible  necessity  to  vent  his  rage. 
His  bitter  sarcasm,  the  ferocity,  even  the  treachery  of 
this  military  execution,  done  without  his  orders,  but 
which  he  now  accepted,  satisfied  in  some  degree  the 
craving  of  his  heart.  In  his  fury  he  would  fain  have 
annihilated  France.  The  dead  Blues,  the  living  oflflcers, 
all  innocent  of  the  crime  for  which  he  demanded  ven- 
geance, were  to  him  the  cards  by  which  a  gambler 
cheats  his  despair. 

"  I  would  rather  perish  thus  than  conquer  as  you  are 
conquering,"  said  Gerard.  Then,  seeing  the  naked  and 
bloody  corpses  of  his  men,  he  cried  out,  "  Murdered 
baseh',  in  cold  blood  !  " 

"That  was  how  3'ou  murdered  Louis  XVL,  mon- 
sieur," said  the  marquis. 

"Monsieur,"  replied  Gerard,  haughtily,  "there  are 
m3'steries  in  a  king's  trial  which  you  could  never  com- 
prehend." 

' '  Do  3'ou  dare  to  accuse  the  king  ? "  exclaimed  the 
marquis. 

"  Do  you  dare  to  fight  your  country  ?  "  retorted  Gerard. 


The  Chouans.  185 

"  Folly  !  "  said  the  marquis. 

"  Parricide  !  "  exclaimed  the  Republican. 

■"  Well,  well,"  cried  Merle,  gayly,  "  a  pretty  time  to 
quarrel  at  the  moment  of  your  death." 

"True,"  said  Gerard,  coldly,  turning  to  the  marquis. 
"  Monsieur,  if  it  is  3'our  intention  to  put  us  to  death,  at 
least  have  the  goodness  to  shoot  us  at  once." 

"  Ah  !  that 's  like  you,  Gerard,"  said  Merle,  ''  always 
in  a  hurry  to  finish  things.  But  if  one  has  to  travel  far 
and  can't  breakfast  on  the  morrow,  at  least  we  might 
sup." 

Gerard  sprang  forward  without  a  word  towards  the 
wall.  Pille-Miche  covered  him,  glancing  as  he  did  so 
at  the  motionless  marquis,  whose  silence  he  took  for  an 
order,  and  the  adjutant-major  fell  like  a  tree.  Marche- 
k-Terre  ran  to  share  the  fresh  booty  with  Pille-Miche  ; 
like  two  hungry  crows  they  disputed  and  clapiored  over 
the  still  warm  body. 

''  If  you  really  wish  to  finish  your  supper,  captain, 
you  can  come  with  me,"  said  the  marquis  to  Merle. 

The  captain  followed  him  mechanicall}',  saying  in  a 
low  voice  :  "  It  is  that  devil  of  a  strumpet  that  caused 
all  this.     What  will  Ilulot  say  ?  " 

*'  Strumpet !  "  cried  the  marquis,  in  a  strangled  voice, 
"then  she  is  one?  " 

The  captain  seemed  to  have  given  Montauran  a  death- 
blow, for  he  re-entered  the  house  with  a  staggering  step, 
pale,  haggard,  and  undone. 

Another  scene  had  meanwhile  taken  place  in  the 
dining-room,  which  assumed,  in  the  marquis's  absence, 
such  a  threatening  character  that  Marie,  alone  without 
her  protector,  might  well  fancy  she  read  her  death- 
warrant  in  the  eyes  of  her  rival.     At  the  noise  of  the 


186  The   Chouans, 

voUej^  the  guests  all  sprang  to  their  feet,  but  Madame 
du  Gua  remained  seated. 

*'  It  is  nothing,"  she  said  ;  "  our  men  are  despatching 
the  Blues/'  Then,  seeing  the  marquis  outside  on  the 
portico,  she  rose.  "  Mademoiselle  whom  3'ou  here  see,*' 
she  continued,  with  the  calmness  of  concentrated  fur}', 
"  came  here  to  betray  the  Gars  !  She  meant  to  deliver 
him  up  to  the  Republic." 

"  I  could  have  done  so  twenty  times  to-da}^  and  yet 
I  saved  his  life,"  said  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil. 

Madame  du  Gua  sprang  upon  her  rival  like  lightning  ; 
in  her  bHnd  excitement  she  tore  apart  the  fastenings  of 
the  young  girl's  spencer,  the  stuff,  the  embroidery,  the 
corset,  the  chemise,  and  plunged  her  savage  hand  into  the 
bosom  where,  as  she  well  knew,  a  letter  lay  hidden.  In 
doing  this  her  jealousy  so  bruised  and  tore  the  palpita- 
ting throat  of  her  rival,  taken  b}'  surprise  at  the  sudden 
attack,  that  she  left  the  bloody  marks  of  her  nails,  feel- 
ing a  sort  of  pleasure  in  making  her  submit  to  so  de- 
grading a  prostitution.  In  the  feeble  struggle  which 
Marie  made  against  the  furious  woman,  her  hair  be- 
came unfastened  and  fell  in  undulating  curls  about  her 
shoulders ;  her  face  glowed  with  outraged  modesty, 
and  tears  made  their  burning  way  along  her  cheeks, 
heightening  the  brillianc}^  of  her  eyes,  as  she  quivered 
with  shame  before  the  looks  of  the  assembled  men. 
The  hardest  judge  would  have  believed  in  her  innocence 
when  he  saw  her  sorrow. 

Hatred  is  so  uncalculating  that  Madame  du  Gua  did 
not  perceive  she  had  overshot  her  mark,  and  that  no  one 
listened  to  her  as  she  cried  triumphantly  :  "  You  shall 
now  see,  gentlemen,  whether  I  have  slandered  that 
horrible  creature." 


The  Chouans.  187 

"  Not  so  horrible,"  said  the  bass  voice  of  the  guest 
who  had  thrown  the  first  stone.  "  But  for  my  part,  I 
hke  such  horrors." 

*' Here,"  continued  the  cruel  woman,  "is  an  order 
signed  by  Laplace,  and  counter-signed  hy  Dubois,  minis- 
ter of  war."  At  these  names  several  heads  were  turned 
to  her.     '^  Listen  to  the  wording  of  it,"  she  went  on. 

"'The  military  citizen-commanders  of  all  grades,  the 
district  administrators,  the  procureur-syndics,  et  cetera, 
of  the  insurgent  departments,  and  particularl}"  those  of 
the  localities  in  which  the  ci-devant  Marquis  de  Montau- 
ran,  leader  of  the  brigands  and  otherwise  known  as  the 
Gars,  may  be  found,  are  hereby  commanded  to  give 
aid  and  assistance  to  the  citoyenne  Marie  Verneuil 
and  to  obey  the  orders  which  she  may  give  them  at  her 
discretion.' 

"  A  worthless  hussy  takes  a  noble  name  to  soil  it 
with  such  treachery,"  added  Madame  du  Gua. 

A  movement  of  astonishment  ran  through  the 
assembly. 

"  The  fight  is  not  even  if  the  Republic  employs  such 
pretty  women  against  us,"  said  the  Baron  du  Gu6nic 

gayly. 

"  Especially  women  who  have  nothing  to  lose,"  said 
Madame  du  Gua. 

"  Nothing  ?  "  cried  the  Chevalier  du  Vissard.  "  Made- 
moiselle has  a  property  which  probably  brings  her  in  a 
pretty  good  sum." 

"  The  Republic  must  like  a  joke,  to  send  strumpets 
for  ambassadors,"  said  the  Abbe  Gudin. 

"Unfortunately,  Mademoiselle  seeks  the  joys  that 
kill,"  said  Madame  du  Gua,  with  a  hon-ible  expression 
of  pleasure  at  the  end  she  foresaw. 


188  The   ChouanB. 

'*  Then  why  are  you  still  living?"  said  her  victim, 
rising  to  her  feet,  after  repairing  the  disorder  of  her 
clothes. 

This  bitter  sarcasm  excited  a  sort  of  respect  for  so 
brave  a  victim,  and  silenced  the  assembly.  Madame 
du  Gua  saw  a  satirical  smile  on  the  lips  of  the  men, 
which  infuriated  her,  and  pa3'ing  no  attention  to  the 
marquis  and  Merle  who  were  entering  the  room,  she 
called  to  the  Chouan  who  followed  them.  ''Pille- 
Miche !  "  she  said,  pointing  to  Mademoiselle  de  Ver- 
neuil,  "  take  her;  she  is  my  share  of  the  booty,  and  I 
turn  her  over  to  you  —  do  what  yon  like  with  her." 

At  these  words  the  whole  assembly  shuddered,  for 
the  hideous  heads  of  Pille-Miche  and  Marche-a-Terre 
appeared  behind  the  marquis,  and  the  punishment  was 
seen  in  all  its  horror. 

Francine  was  standing  with  clasped  hands  as  though 
paralyzed.  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  who  recovered 
her  presence  of  mind  before  the  danger  that  threatened 
her,  cast  a  look  of  contempt  at  the  assembled  men, 
snatched  the  letter  from  Madame  du  Gua's  hand,  threw 
up  her  head  with  a  flashing  eye,  and  darted  towards  the 
door  where  Merle's  sword  was  still  leaning.  There  she 
came  upon  the  marquis,  cold  and  motionless  as  a 
statue.  Nothing  pleaded  for  her  on  his  fixed,  firm  fea- 
tures. Wounded  to  the  heart,  life  seemed  odious  to 
her.  The  man  who  had  pledged  her  so  much  love  must 
have  heard  the  odious  jests  that  were  cast  upon  her, 
and  stood  there  silentl}'  a  witness  of  the  infamy  she  had 
been  made  to  endure.  She  might,  perhaps,  have  for- 
given him  his  contempt,  but  she  could  not  forgive  his 
having  seen  her  in  so  humiliating  a  position,  and  she 
flung  him  a  look  that  was  full  of  hatred,  feeling  in  her 


The   Chouaiis.  189 

heart  the  birth  of  an  unutterable  desire  for  vengeance. 
With  death  beside  her,  the  sense  of  impotence  almost 
strangled  her.  A  whirlwind  of  passion  and  madness 
rose  in  her  head ;  the  blood  which  boiled  in  her  veins 
made  everything  about  her  seem  like  a  conflagration. 
Instead  of  killing  herself,  she  seized  the  sword  and 
thrust  it  through  the  marquis.  But  the  weapon  slipped 
between  his  arm  and  side ;  he  caught  her  b}"  the  wrist 
and  dragged  her  from  the  room,  aided  by  Pille-Miche, 
who  had  flung  hnnself  upon  the  furious  creature  when 
she  attacked  his  master.  Francine  shrieked  aloud. 
''  Pierre  !  Pierre  !  Pierre  !  "  she  cried  in  heart-rending 
tones,  as  she  followed  her  mistress. 

The  marquis  closed  the  door  on  the  astonished  com- 
pany. When  he  reached  the  portico  he  was  still  hold- 
ing the  woman's  wrist,  which  he  clasped  convulsivel}', 
while  Pille-Miche  had  almost  crushed  the  bones  of  her 
arm  with  his  iron  fingers,  but  Marie  felt  only  the  burn- 
ing hand  of  the  }■  oung  leader. 

"  You  hurt  me,"  she  said. 

For  all  answer  he  looked  at  her  a  moment. 

'  •  Have  you  some  base  revenge  to  take  —  like  that 
woman?"  she  said.  Then,  seeing  the  dead  bodies  on 
the  heap  of  straw,  she  cried  out,  shuddering:  *' The 
faith  of  a  gentleman  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  "  With  a  frightful 
laugh  she  added  :  *'  Ha !  the  glorious  day  !  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  a  day  without  a  morrow." 

He  let  go  her  hand  and  took  a  long,  last  look  at  the 
beautiful  creature  he  could  scarcely  even  then  renounce. 
Neither  of  these  proud  natures  yielded.  The  marquis 
may  have  looked  for  a  tear,  but  the  eyes  of  the  girl 
were  dry  and  scornful.  Then  he  turned  quickly,  and 
left  the  victim  to  Pille-Miche. 


Y^ 


190  The  Ohouans. 

"  God  will  hear  me,  marquis,"  she  called.  "I  will 
ask  Him  to  give  you  a  glorious  day  without  a  morrow." 

Pille-Miche,  not  a  httle  embarrassed  with  so  rich  a 
prize,  dragged  her  awa}-  with  some  gentleness  and  a 
mixture  of  respect  and  scorn.  The  marquis,  with  a 
sigh,  re-entered  the  dining-room,  his  face  like  that  of 
a  dead  man  whose  eyes  have  not  been  closed. 

Merle's  presence  was  inexplicable  to  the  silent  spec- 
tators of  this  tragedy ;  they  looked  at  him  in  astonish- 
ment and  their  eyes  questioned  each  other.  Merle  saw 
their  amazement,  and,  true  to  his  native  character,  he 
said,  with  a  smile:  ''Gentlemen,  you  will  scarcely 
refuse  a  glass  of  wine  to  a  man  who  is  about  to  make 
his  last  journey." 

It  was  just  as  the  company  had  calmed  down  under 
the  influence  of  these  words,  said  with  a  true  French 
carelessness  which  pleased  the  Vend^ans,  that  Mon- 
tauran  reappeared,  his  face  pale,  his  eyes  fixed. 

''  Now  you  shall  see,"  said  Merle,  "  how  death  can 
make  men  livel}." 

"Ah!"  said  the  marquis,  with  a  gesture  as  if  sud- 
denly awaking,  "  here  you  are,  my  dear  councillor  of 
war,"  and  he  passed  him  a  bottle  of  vin  de  Grave. 

"  Oh,  thanks,  citizen  marquis,"  replied  Merle. 
"  Now    I    can    divert    myself." 

At  this  sally  Madame  du  Gua  turned  to  the  other 
guests  with  a  smile,  saying,  "  Let  us  spare  him  the 
dessert." 

"  That  is  a  very  cruel  vengeance,  madame,"  he  said. 
"  You  forget  my  murdered  friend  who  is  waiting  for 
me ;  I  never  miss  an  appointment." 

''  Captain,"  said  the  marquis,  throwing  him  his 
glove,    "you    are    free;    that's  your  passport.    The 


The   Chouans.  191 

Chasseurs  du  Roi  know  that  they  must  not  kill  all  the 
game." 

"  So  much  the  better  for  me  !  "  replied  Merle,  "  but 
you  are  making  a  mistake ;  we  shall  come  to  close 
quarters  before  long,  and  I  '11  not  let  j^ou  off.  Though 
your  head  can  never  pay  for  Gerard's,  I  want  it  and  I 
shall  have  it.  Adieu.  I  could  drink  with  my  own 
assassins,  but  I  cannot  stay  with  those  of  my  friend  ; " 
and  he  disappeared,  leaving  the  guests  astonished  at 
his  coolness. 

'*  Well,  gentlemen,  what  do  3'ou  think  of  the  lawyers 
and  surgeons  and  bailiffs  who  manage  the  Republic," 
said  the  Gars,  coldly. 

*'God's-death  !  marquis,"  replied  the  Comte  de  Bau- 
van  ;  ' '  they  have  shocking  manners  ;  that  fellow  pre- 
sumed to  be  impertinent,  it  seems  to  me." 

The  captain's  hasty  retreat  had  a  motive.  The  de- 
spised, humiliated  woman,  who  was  even  then,  perhaps, 
being  put  to  death,  had  so  won  upon  him  during  the 
scene  of  her  degradation  that  he  said  to  himself,  as  he 
left  the  room,  *'  If  she  is  a  prostitute,  she  is  not  an 
ordinary  ond^  and  I  '11  marrj'  her."  He  felt  so  sure  of 
being  able  to  rescue  her  from  the  savages  that  his  first 
thought,  when  his  own  life  was  given  to  him,  was  to 
save  hers.  Unhappily,  when  he  reached  the  portico, 
he  found  the  courtyard  deserted.  He  looked  about  him, 
listened  to  the  silence,  and  could  hear  nothing  but  the 
distant  shouts  and  laughter  of  the  Chouans,  who  were 
drinking  in  the  gardens  and  dividing  their  booty.  He 
turned  the  corner  to  the  fatal  wing  before  which  his 
men  had  been  shot,  and  from  there  he  could  distinguish, 
b}'  the  feeble  light  of  a  few  stray  lanterns,  the  different 
groups  of  the  Chasseurs  du  Roi.     Neither  Pille-Miche, 


192  The   Chouans. 

nor  Marche-k-Terre,  nor  the  girl  were  visible ;  but  he 
felt  himself  genth*  pulled  by  the  flap  of  his  uniform, 
and,  turning  round,  saw  Francine  on  her  knees. 

''  Where  is  she?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know ;  Pierre  drove  me  back  and  told  me 
not  to  stir  from  here." 

"  Which  way  did  they  go?" 

"  That  wa}^"  she  replied,  pointing  to  the  causeway. 

The  captain  and  Francine  then  noticed  in  that  direc- 
tion a  line  of  strong  shadows  thrown  by  the  moonlight 
on  the  lake,  and  among  them  that  of  a  female  figure. 

"  It  ia  she  !  "  cried  Francine. 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  seemed  to  be  standing,  as 
if  resigned,  in  the  midst  of  other  figures,  whose  gestures 
denoted  a  debate. 

"There  are  several,"  said  the  captain.  "Well,  no 
matter,  let  us  go  to  them /' 

''  You  will  get  yourself  killed  uselessly,"  said  Fran- 
cine. 

"I  have  been  killed  once  before  to-day,"  he  said 
gayly. 

They  both  walked  towards  the  gloomy  gateway  which 
led  to  the  causeway  ;  there  Francine  suddenly  stopped 
short. 

"  No,"  she  said,  gently,  "I'll  go  no  farther  ;  Pierre 
told  me  not  to  meddle ;  I  believe  in  him ;  if  we  go  on 
we  shall  spoil  all.  Do  as  3'ou  please,  oflftcer,  but  leave 
me.     If  Pierre  saw  us  together  he  would  kill  you." 

Just  then  Pille-Miche  appeared  in  the  gateway  and 
called  to  the  postilion  who  was  left  in  the  stable.  At 
the  same  moment  he  saw  the  captain  and  covered  him 
with  his  musket,  shouting  out,  "  By  Saint  Anne  of 
Auray !  the  rector  was  right  enough  in  telling  us  the 


The   Chouans.  193 

Blues  had  signed  a  compact  with  the  devil.     I  '11  bring 
you  to  life,  I  will !  '* 

"Stop!  my  life  is  sacred,"  cried  Merle,  seeing  his 
danger.  ''There  's  the  glove  of  your  Gar«,"  and  he 
held  it  out. 

"  Ghosts'  lives  are  not  sacred,"  replied  the  Chouan, 
"  and  I  sha'n't  give  you  yours.     Ave  Maria  !  " 

He  fired,  and  the  ball  passed  through  his  victim's 
head.  The  captain  fell.  When  Francine  reached  him 
she  heard  him  mutter  the  words,  "  I  'd  rather  die  with 
them  than  return  without  them," 

The  Chouan  sprang  upon  the  body  to  strip  it,  saying, 
"There's  one  good  thing  about  ghosts,  they  come  to 
life  in  their  clothes."  Then,  recognizing  the  Gars' 
glove,  that  sacred  safeguard,  in  the  paptain's  hand,  he 
stopped  short,  terrified.  "I  wish  I  wasn't  in  the  skin 
of  my  mother's  son ! "  he  exclaimed,  as  he  turned  and 
disappeared  with  the  rapidity  of  a  bird. 

To  understand  this  scene,  so  fatal  to  poor  Merle,  we 
must  follow  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  after  the  mar- 
quis, in  his  fury  and  despair,  had  abandoned  her  to 
Pille-Miche.  Francine  had  caught  Marche-a-Terre  by 
the  arm  and  reminded  him,  with  sobs,  of  the  promise  he 
had  made  her.  Pille-Miche  was  already  dragging  away 
his  victim  like  a  heavy  bundle.  Marie,  her  head  and 
hair  hanging  back,  turned  her  eyes  to  the  lake  ;  but 
held  as  she  was  in  a  grasp  of  iron  she  was  forced  to 
follow  the  Chouan,  who  turned  now  and  then  to  hasten 
her  steps,  and  each  time  that  he  did  so  a  jovial  thought 
brought  a  hideous  smile  upon  his  face. 

"  Is  n't  she  a  morsel !  "  he  cried,  with  a  coarse  laugh. 

Hearing  the  words,  Francine  recovered  speech. 

"Pierre?" 

13 


194  The  Chouans. 

''Well,  what?" 

''He '11  kill  her." 

"  Not  at  once." 

' '  Then  she  '11  kill  herself,  she  will  never  submit ;  and 
if  she  dies  I  shall  die  too." 

"Then  you  love  her  too  much,  and  she  shall  die," 
said  Marche-k-Terre. 

"  Pierre !  if  we  are  rich  and  happy  we  owe  it  all  to 
her ;  but,  whether  or  no,  you  promised  me  to  save  her." 

"  Well,  I  '11  try ;  but  5^ou  must  stay  here,  and  don't 
move." 

Francine  at  once  let  go  his  arm,  and  waited  in  horri- 
ble suspense  in  the  courtyard  where  Merle  found  her. 
Meantime  Marche-a-Terre  joined  his  comrade  at  the 
moment  when  the  latter,  after  dragging  his  victim  to 
the  barn,  was  compelling  her  to  get  into  the  coach. 
Pille-Miche  called  to  him  to  help  in  pulling  out  the 
vehicle. 

"  What  are  3^ou  going  to  do  with  all  that?"  asked 
Marche-a-Terre. 

"  The  Grande  Garce  gave  me  the  woman,  and  all  that 
belongs  to  her  is  mine." 

"  The  coach  will  put  a  sou  or  two  in  your  pocket ; 
but  as  for  the  woman,  she  '11  scratch  your  eyes  out  like 
a  cat." 

Pille-Miche  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter. 

"  Then  I  '11  tie  her  and  take  her  home,"  he  answered. 

"  Very  good ;  suppose  we  harness  the  horses,"  said 
Marche-a-Terre. 

A  few  moments  later  Marche-a-Terre,  who  had  left 
his  comrade  mounting  guard  over  his  prej^,  led  the 
coach  from  the  stable  to  the  causeway,  where  Pille- 
Miche  got  into  it  beside  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  not 


The   Chouans.  195 

perceiving  that  she  was  on  the  point  of  making  a  spring 
into  the  lake. 

'*  I  say,  Pille-Miche  !  "  cried  Marche-k-Terre. 

"What!" 

"I '11  buy  all  your  booty." 

"Are  )'ou  joking?"'  asked  the  other,  catching  his 
prisoner  by  the  petticoat,  as  a  butcher  catches  a  calf  that 
is  trying  to  escape  him. 

"  Let  rae  sec  her,  and  I  '11  set  a  price." 

The  unfortunate  creature  was  -made  to  leave  the  coach 
and  stand  between  the  two  Chouans,  who  each  held  a 
hand  and  looked  at  her  as  the  Elders  must  have  looked 
at  Susannah. 

"  Will  you  take  thirty  francs  in  good  coin  ? "  said 
Marche-a-Terre,  with  a  groan. 

"Really?" 

"  Done?"  said  Marche-k-Terre,  holding  out  his  hand. 

"  Yes,  done  ;  I  can  get  plenty  of  Breton  girls  for 
that,  and  choice  morsels,  too.  But  the  coach ;  whose 
is  that  ? "  asked  Pille-Miche,  beginning  to  reflect  upon 
his  bargain. 

"  Mine  !  "  cried  Marche-k-Terre,  in  a  terrible  tone  of 
voice,  which  showed  the  sort  of  superiority  his  ferocious 
character  gave  him  over  his  companions. 

"  But  suppose  there 's  money  in  the  coach  ?  " 

"  Did  n't  you  say,  '  Done  '  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  said,  '  Done.'  " 

"  Very  good  ;  then  go  and  fetch  the  postilion  who  is 
gagged  in  the  stable  over  there." 

"  But  if  there  's  money  in  the  —  " 

"Is  there  any?"  asked  Marche-k-Terre,  roughly, 
shaking  Marie   by   the   arm. 

"  Yes,  about  a  hundred  crowns." 


196  The   Chouans. 

The  two  Chouans  looked  at  each  other. 

"Well,  well,  friend,"  said  Pille-Miche,  "we  won't 
quarrel  for  a  female  Blue  ;  let  "s  pitch  her  into  the  lake 
with  a  stone  round  her  neck,  and  divide  the  money." 

"  I  '11  give  3'ou  all  that  money  as  m}-  share  in  d'Orge- 
mont's  ransom,"  said  Marche-a-Terre,  smothering  a 
groan,  caused  b}-  such  sacrifice. 

Pille-Miche  uttered  a  sort  of  hoarse  crj^  as  he  started 
to  find  the  postilion,  and  his  glee  brought  death  to 
Merfe,  whom  he  met  oq  his  way. 

Hearing  the  shot,  Marche-a-Terre  rushed  in  the 
direction  where  he  had  left  Francine,  and  found  her 
praying  on  her  knees,  with  clasped  hands,  beside  the 
poor  captain,  whose  murder  had  deeply  horrified  her. 

"  Run  to  3'Our  mistress,"  said  the  Chouan  ;  "  she  is 
saved." 

He  ran  himself  to  fetch  the  postilion,  returning  with 
all  speed,  and,  as  he  repassed  Merle's  bod}',  he  noticed 
the  Gars'  glove,  which  was  still  convulsively  clasped  in 
the  dead  hand. 

"Oho!''  he  cried.  "Pille-Miche  has  blundered 
horribly  —  he    won't    live    to    spend    his    crowns." 

He  snatched  up  the  glove  and  said  to  Mademoiselle 
de  Verneuil,  who  was  already  in  the  coach  with  Fran> 
cine:  "Here,  take  this  glove.  If  any  of  our  men 
attack  you  on  the  road,  call  out  '  Ho,  the  Gars  !  '  show 
the  glove,  and  no  harm  can  happen  to  you.  Fran- 
cine,"  he  said,  turning  towards  her  and  seizing  her 
hand  violentl}',  "  you  and  I  are  quits  with  that  woman  ; 
come  with  me  and  let  the  devil  have  her." 

' '  You  can 't  ask  me  to  abandon  her  just  at  this 
moment ! "  cried  Francine,  in  distress. 

Marche-a-Terre  scratched  his  ear  and  forehead,  then 


The   CJiouans.  197 

he  raised  his  head,  and  his  mistress  saw  the  ferocious 
expression  of  his  e3-es.  "  You  are  right,"  he  said  ;  "  I 
leave  3'ou  with  her  one  week ;  if  at  the  end  of  that 
time  you  don't  come  with  me  —  "  he  did  not  finish  the 
sentence,  but  he  slapped  the  muzzle  of  his  gun  with 
the  flat  of  his  hand.  After  making  the  gesture  of 
taking  aim  at  her,  he  disappeared,  without  waiting 
for  her   reply. 

No  sooner  was  he  gone  than  a  voice,  which  seemed 
to  issue  from  the  lake,  called,  in  a  muffled  tone : 
"  Madame,    madame  !  " 

The  postilion  and  the  two  women  shuddered,  for 
several  corpses  were  floating  near  them.  A  Blue, 
hidden   behind   a   tree,    cautiously   appeared. 

''Let  me  get  up  behind  the  coach,  or  I'm  a  dead 
man.  That  damned  cider  which  Clef-des-Coeurs  would 
stop  to  drink  cost  more  than  a  pint  of  blood.  If 
he  had  done  as  I  did,  and  made  his  round,  our  poor 
comrades  there  would  n't  be  floating  dead  in  the 
pond." 

While  these  events  were  taking  place  outside  the 
chateau,  the  leaders  sent  bj-  the  Vendeans  and  those  of 
the  Chouans  were  holding  a  council  of  war,  with  their 
glasses  in  their  hands,  under  the  presidency  of  the 
Marquis  de  Montauran.  Frequent  libations  of  Bor- 
deaux animated  the  discussion,  which,  however,  be- 
came more  serious  and  important  at  the  end  of  the 
meal.  After  the  general  plan  of  military  operations 
had  been  decided  on,  the  Royalists  drank  to  the  health 
of  the  Bourbons.  It  was  at  that  moment  that  the  shot 
which  killed  Merle  was  heard,  like  an  echo  of  the  dis- 
astrous  war  which  these  gay  and  noble  conspirators 


198  The   Chouans. 

were  about  to  make  against  the  Republic.  Madame 
du  Gua  quivered  with  pleasure  at  the  thought  that  she 
was  freed  from  her  rival ;  the  guests  looked  at  each 
other  in  silence ;  the  marquis  rose  from  the  table  and 
went  out. 

"He  loved  her!"  said  Madame  du  Gua,  sarcasti- 
call}' .  "  Follow  him,  Monsieur  de  Fontaine,  and  keep 
him  company ;  he  will  be  as  irritating  as  a  fly  if  we  let 
him  sulk." 

She  went  to  a  window  which  looked  on  the  courtyard 
to  endeavor  to  see  Marie's  body.  There,  by  the  last 
gleams  of  the  sinking  moon,  she  caught  sight  of  the 
coach  being  rapidly  driven  down  the  avenue  of  apple- 
trees.  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil's  veil  was  fluttering 
in  the  wind.  Madame  du  Gua,  furious  at  the  sight, 
left  the  room  hurriedly.  The  marquis,  standing  on 
the  portico  absorbed  in  gloomy  thought,  was  watching 
about  a  hundred  and  fifty  Chouans,  who,  having  di- 
vided their  booty  in  the  gardens,  were  now  returning 
to  finish  the  cider  and  the  rye-bread  provided  for  the 
Blues.  These  soldiers  of  a  new  species,  on  whom  the 
monarchy  was  resting  its  hopes,  dispersed  into  groups. 
Some  drank  the  cider ;  others,  on  the  bank  before  the 
portico,  amused  themselves  by  flinging  into  the  lake 
the  dead  bodies  of  the  Blues,  to  which  they  fastened 
stones.  This  sight,  joined  to  the  other  aspects  of  the 
strange  scene,  —  the  fantastic  dress,  the  savage  expres- 
sions of  the  barbarous  and  uncouth  gars,  —  was  so  new 
and  so  amazing  to  Monsieur  de  Fontaine,  accustomed 
to  the  nobler  and  better-regulated  appearance  of  the 
Vendean  troops,  that  he  seized  the  occasion  to  say  to 
the  Marquis  de  Montauran,  "  What  do  you  expect  to 
do  with  such  brutes  ?  " 


The   Chouans.  199 

"  Not  very  much,  my  dear  count,"  replied  the  Gars. 

"  Will  the}^  ever  be  fit  to  manoeuvre  before  the 
enemy  ?  " 

"Never." 

''  Can  they  even  understand  or  execute  an  order?  " 

"No." 

"  Then  what  good  will  they  be  to  you? " 

"  They  will  help  me  to  plunge  my  sword  into  the  en- 
trails of  the  Republic,"  replied  the  marquis  in  a  thunder- 
ing voice.  "  They  will  give  me  Fougeres  in  three  days, 
and  all  Brittany  in  ten !  Monsieur,"  he  added  in  a 
gentler  voice,  "  start  at  once  for  La  Vendee  ;  if  d'Auti- 
camp,  Suzannet,  and  the  Abb^  Bernier  will  act  as 
rapidly  as  I  do,  if  they  '11  not  negotiate  with  the  First 
Consul,  as  I  am  afraid  they  will"  (here  he  wrung  the 
hand  of  the  Vendean  chief)  "  we  shall  be  within  reach 
of  Paris  in  a  fortnight." 

"  But  the  Republic  is  sending  sixty  thousand  men 
and  General  Brune  against  us." 

"  Sixty  thousand  men  !  indeed  1"  cried  the  marquis, 
with  a  scoffing  laugh.  "  And  how  will  Bonaparte  carry 
on  the  Italian  campaign  ?  As  for  General  Brune,  he  is 
not  coming.  The  First  Consul  has  sent  him  against  the 
English  in  Holland,  and  General  H^douville,  the  friend 
of  our  friend  JBarras,  takes  his  place  here.  Do  you 
understand  ?  " 

As  Monsieur  de  Fontaine  heard  these  words  he  gave 
Montauran  a  look  of  keen  intelligence  which  seemed  to 
say  that  the  marquis  had  not  himself  understood  the 
real  meaning  of  the  words  addressed  to  him.  The  two 
leaders  then  comprehended  each  other  perfectly,  and  the 
Gars  replied  with  an  undefinable  smile  to  the  thoughts 
expressed  in  both  their  eyes  :  "  Monsieur  de  Fontaine, 


200  The  Chouans. 

do  you  know  mj  arms  ?  our  motto  is  *  Persevere  unto 
death.' " 

The  Comte  de  Fontaine  took  Montauran's  hand  and 
pressed  it,  saying:  "  I  was  left  for  dead  at  Quatre- 
Chemins,  therefore  you  need  never  doubt  me.  But  be- 
lieve in  my  experience  —  times  have  changed." 

'*  Yes,"  said  La  Billardiere,  who  now  joined  them. 
"You  are  young,  marquis.  Listen  to  me;  your  prop- 
erty has  not  yet  been  sold  —  " 

"  Ah  !  "  cried  Montauran,  "  can  you  conceive  of  de- 
votion without  sacrifice  ?  " 

*'  Do  5'OU  really  know  the  king?  " 

'a  do." 

"  Then  I  admire  your  loyalty." 

"The  king,"  replied  the  3'Oung  chieftain,  "is  the 
priest ;  I  am  fighting  not  for  the  man,  but  for  the  faith." 

They  parted,  —  the  Vendean  leader  convinced  of  the 
necessit}^  of  yielding  to  circumstances  and  keeping  his 
beliefs  in  the  depths  of  his  heart ;  La  Billardiere  to  re- 
turn to  his  negotiations  in  England  ;  and  Montauran  to 
fight  savagely  and  compel  the  Vendeans,  b}'  the  victories 
he  expected  to  win,  to  co-operate  in  his  enterprise. 

The  events  of  the  day  had  excited  such  violent  emo- 
tions in  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil's  whole  being  that 
she  lay  back  almost  fainting  in  the  carriage,  after  giving 
the  order  to  drive  to  Fougeres.  Francine  was  as  silent 
as  her  mistress.  The  postilion,  dreading  some  new 
disaster,  made  all  the  haste  he  could  to  reach  the  high- 
road, and  was  soon  on  the  summit  of  La  Pelerine. 
Through  the  thick  white  mists  of  morning  Marie  de 
Verneuil  crossed  the  broad  and  beautiful  valley  of 
Couesnon  (where  this  history  began)  scarcely  able  to 


The  Ohouans.  201 

distinguish  the  slaty  rock  on  which  the  town  of  P'ou- 
geres  stands  from  the  slopes  of  La  Pelerine.  They 
were  still  eight  miles  from  it.  Shivering  with  cold  her- 
self, Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  recollected  the  poor 
soldier  behind  the  carriage,  and  insisted,  against  his 
remonstrances,  in  taking  him  into  the  carriage  beside 
Francine.  The  sight  of  Fougeres  drew  her  for  a  time 
out  of  her  reflections.  The  sentinels  stationed  at  the 
Porte  Saint-Leonard  refused  to  allow  ingress  to  the 
strangers,  and  she  was  therefore  obliged  to  exhibit 
the  ministerial  order.  This  at  once  gave  her  safety  in 
entering  the  town,  but  the  postilion  could  find  no  other 
place  for  her  to  stop  at  than  the  Poste  inn. 

"  Madame,"  said  the  Blue  whose  life  she  had  saved. 
"  If  you  ever  want  a  sabre  to  deal  some  special  blow, 
my  life  is  yours.  I  am  good  for  that.  My  name  is 
Jean  Falcon,  otherwise  called  Beau-Pied,  sergeant  of 
the  first  company  of  Hulot's  veterans',  seventy-second 
half-brigade,  nicknamed  '  Les  Mayengais.'  Excuse  ray 
vanity  ;  I  can  onl}'  offer  you  the  soul  of  a  sergeant,  but 
that 's  at  your  service." 

He  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  off  whistling. 

"  The  lower  one  goes  in  social  life,"  said  Marie,  bit- 
terly, "  the  more  we  find  generous  feelings  without 
displa3\  A  marquis  returns  me  death  for  life,  and  a 
poor  sergeant  —  but  enough  of  that." 

When  the  weary  woman  was  at  last  in  a  warm  bed, 
her  faithful  Francine  waited  in  vain  for  the  affectionate 
good-night  to  which  she  was  accustomed  ;  but  her  mis- 
tress, seeing  her  still  standing  and  evidently  uneasy, 
made  her  a  sign  of  distress. 

"  This  is  called  a  day,  Francine,"  she  said  ;  ''  but  I 
have  aged  ten  years  in  it." 


202  The  Chouans. 

The  next  morning,  as  soon  as  she  had  risen,  Corentin 
came  to  see  her  and  she  admitted  him. 

"  Francine,"  she  exclaimed,  "  my  degradation  is 
great  indeed,  for  the  thought  of  that  man  is  not  dis- 
agreeable to  me." 

Still,  when  she  saw  him,  she  felt  once  more,  for  the 
hundredth  time,  the  instinctive  repulsion  which  two 
years'  intercourse  had  increased  rather  than  lessened. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  smiling,  "  I  felt  certain  3'ou  were 
succeeding.  Was  I  mistaken?  did  you  get  hold  of  the 
wrong  man  ?  " 

"Corentin,"  she  replied,  with  a  dnll  look  of  pain, 
"never  mention  that  affair  to  me  unless  I  speak  of  it 
myself" 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  room  casting  oblique 
glances  at  her,  endeavoring  to  guess  the  secret  thoughts 
of  the  singular  woman  whose  mere  glance  had  the  power 
of  discomfiting  at  times  the  cleverest  men. 

"I  foresaw  this  check,"  he  replied,  after  a  moment's 
silence.  "  If  you  would  be  willing  to  establish  your 
headquarters  in  this  town,  I  have  already  found  a  suit- 
able place  for  you.  We  are  in  the  very  centre  of  Chou- 
annerie.     Will  you  sta^^  here?" 

She  answered  with  an  affirmative  sign,  which  enabled 
Corentin  to  make  conjectures,  partlj^  correct,  as  to  the 
events  of  the  preceding  evening. 

"  I  can  hire  a  house  for  you,  a  bit  of  national  prop- 
erty still  unsold.  They  are  behind  the  age  in  these 
parts.  No  one  has  dared  buy  the  old  barrack  because 
it  belonged  to  an  emigr^  who  was  thought  to  be  harsh. 
It  is  close  to  the  church  of  Saint  Leonard  ;  and  on  my 
word  of  honor  the  view  from  it  is  delightful.  Something 
can  really  be  made  of  the  old  place  ;  will  you  try  it?  " 


The   Chouans.  203 

"  Yes,  at  once,"  she  cried. 

'*  I  want  a  few  hours  to  have  it  cleaned  and  put  in 
order  for  3-ou,  so  that  you  may  like  it." 

"  What  matter? "  she  said.  "  I  could  live  in  a  cloister 
or  a  prison  without  caring.  However,  see  that  ever}^- 
thing  is  in  order  before  night,  so  that  I  may  sleep  there 
in  perfect  solitude.  Go,  leave  me ;  your  presence  is 
intolerable.  I  wish  to  be  alone  with  Francine ;  she  is 
better  for  me  than  my  own  company,  perhaps.  Adieu  ; 
go  — go,  I  say." 

These  words,  said  volubly  with  a  mingling  of  co- 
quetry, depotism,  and  passion,  showed  she  had  entireh' 
recovered  her  self-possession.  Sleep  had  no  doubt 
classified  the  impressions  of  the  preceding  da}^  and 
reflection  had  determined  her  on  vengeance.  If  a  few 
reluctant  signs  appeared  on  her  face  they  only  proved 
the  ease  with  which  certain  women  can  bury  the  better 
feelings  of  theii;  souls,  and  the  cruel  dissimulation  which 
enables  them  to  smile  sweetly  while  planning  the  de- 
struction of  a  victim.  She  sat  alone  after  Corentin  had 
left  her,  thinking  how  she  could  get  the  marquis  still  liv- 
ing into  her  toils.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  this  woman 
had  lived  according  to  her  inmost  desires  ;  but  of  that 
life  nothing  remained  but  one  craving,  —  that  of  ven- 
geance, —  vengeance  complete  and  infinite.  It  was  her 
one  thought,  her  sole  desire.  Francine's  words  and 
attentions  were  unnoticed.  Marie  seemed  to  be  sleep- 
ing with  her  eyes  open  ;  and  the  long  day  passed  with- 
out an  action  or  even  a  gesture  that  bore  testimony  to 
her  thoughts.  She  lay  on  a  couch  which  she  had  made 
of  chairs  and  pillows.  It  was  late  in  the  evening  when 
a  few  words  escaped  her,  as  if  involuntarily. 

"My  child,"  she  said  to  Francine,  "I  understood 


204  The   Chouans. 

3'esterda3^  what  it  was  to  live  for  love ;  to-da}'  I  know 
what  it  means  to  die  for  vengeance.  Yes,  I  will  give 
my  life  to  seek  him  wherever  he  may  be,  to  meet  him, 
seduce  him,  make  him  mine !  If  I  do  not  have  that 
man,  who  dared  to  despise  me,  at  m}-  feet  humble  and 
submissive,  if  I  do  not  make  him  my  lackej-  and  my 
slave,  I  shall  indeed  be  base  ;  I  shall  not  be  a  woman  ; 
I  shall  not  be  myself." 

The  house  which  Corentin  now  hired  for  Mademoi- 
selle de  Verneuil  offered  many  gratifications  to  the  in- 
nate love  of  luxury  and  elegance  that  was  part  of  this 
girl.  The  capricious  creature  took  possession  of  it  with 
regal  composure,  as  of  a  thing  which  already  belonged 
to  her ;  she  appropriated  the  furniture  and  arranged  it 
with  intuitive  sympathy,  as  though  she  had  known  it 
all  her  life.  This  is  a  vulgar  detail,  but  one  that  is  not 
unimportant  in  sketching  the  character  of  so  exceptional 
a  person.  She  seemed  to  have  been  already  familiar- 
ized in  a  dream  with  the  house  in  which  she  now  lived 
on  her  hatred  as  she  might  have  lived  on  her  love. 

"At  least,"  she  said  to  herself,  "I  did  not  rouse 
insulting  pity  in  him  ;  I  do  not  owe  him  my  Hfe.  Oh, 
my  first,  my  last,  my  only  love !  what  an  end  to  it !  " 
She  sprang  upon  Francine,  who  was  terrified.  "  Do  you 
love  a  man?  Oh,  3^es,  yes,  I  remember;  you  do.  I 
am  glad  I  have  a  woman  here  who  can  understand  me. 
Ah,  my  poor  Francette,  man  is  a  miserable  being.  Ha  ! 
he  said  he  loved  me,  and  his  love  could  not  bear  the  slight- 
est test !  But  I,  — if  all  men  had  accused  him  I  would 
have  defended  him  ;  if  the  universe  rejected  him  my 
soul  should  have  been  his  refuge.  In  the  old  da3'S  life 
was  filled  with  human  beings  coming  and  going  for 
whom  I  did  not  care  ;  it  was  sad  and  dull,  but  not  hor- 


The  Chouans.  205 

rible  ;  but  now,  now,  what  is  life  without  him  ?  He 
will  live  on,  and  I  not  near  him  !  I  shall  not  see  him, 
speak  to  him,  feel  him,  hold  him,  press  him,  —  ha!  I 
would  rather  strangle  him  myself  in  his  sleep  !  " 

Francine,  horrified,  looked  at  her  in  silence. 

"  Kill  the  man  you  love?^'  she  said,  in  a  soft  voice, 

*'  Yjes,  yes,  if  he  ceases  to  love  me." 

But  after  those  ruthless  words  she  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands,  and  sat  down  silently-. 

The  next  da}-  a  man  presented  himself  without  being 
announced.  His  face  was  stern.  It  was  Hulot,  fol- 
lowed by  Corentin.  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  looked 
at  the  commandant  and  trembled. 

"  You  have  come,"  she  said,  *'  to  ask  me  to  account 
for  your  friends.     They  are  dead." 

"  I  know  it,"  he  replied,  *'  and  not  in  the  service  of 
the  Republic." 

"  For  me,  and  by  me,"  she  said.  "  You  preach  the 
nation  to  me.  Can  the  nation  bring  to  life  those  who 
die  for  her  ?  Can  she  even  avenge  them  ?  But  I  —  I 
will  avenge  them ! "  she  cried.  The  awful  images  of 
the  catastrophe  filled  her  imagination  suddenl}',  and 
the  graceful  creature  who  held  modesty  to  be  the  first 
of  women's  wiles  forgot  herself  in  a  moment  of  mad- 
ness, and  marched  towards  the  amazed  commandant 
brusquely. 

"  In  exchange  for  a  few  murdered  soldiers,"  she  said, 
"  I  will  bring  to  the  block  a  head  which  is  worth  a 
milHon  heads  of  other  men.  It  is  not  a  woman's  busi- 
ness to  make  war ;  but  you,  old  as  you  are,  shall  learn 
good  stratagems  of  me.  I  '11  deliver  a  whole  family  to 
your  bayonets  —  him,  his  ancestors,  his  past,  his  future. 
I  will  be  as  false  and  treacherous  to  him  as  I  was  good 


206  The   Chouans, 

and  true.  Yes,  commandant,  I  will  bring  that  little 
noble  to  my  arms,  and  he  shall  leave  them  to  go  to 
death.  I  will  have  no  other  rival.  The  wretch  himself 
pronounced  his  doom,  —  a  day  without  a  morrow. 
Your  Republic  and  I  shall  be  avenged.  The  Repub- 
lic!" she  cried  in  a  voice  the  strange  intonations  of 
which  horrified  Hulot.  "  Is  he  to  die  for  bearing,  arms 
against  the  nation?  Shall  1  suffer  France  to  rob  me  of 
my  vengeance  ?  Ah  !  what  a  Uttle  thing  is  life  !  death 
can  expiate  but  one  crime.  He  has  but  one  head  to 
fall,  but  I  will  make  him  know  in  one  night  that  he 
loses  more  than  life.  Commandant,  you  who  will  kill 
him,"  and  she  sighed,  "  see  that  nothing  betrays  my 
betrayal ;  he  must  die  convinced  of  my  fidelity.  I  ask 
that  of  you.  Let  him  know  only  me  —  me,  and  my 
caresses !  " 

She  stopped  ;  but  through  the  crimson  of  her  cheeks 
Hulot  and  Corentin  saw  that  rage  and  delirium  had  not 
entirely  smothered  all  sense  of  shame.  Marie  shud- 
dered violently  as  she  said  the  words ;  she  seemed  to 
listen  to  them  as  though  she  doubted  whether  she  her- 
self had  said  them,  and  she  made  the  involuntary  move- 
ment of  a  woman  whose  veil  is  falling  from  her. 

"  But  you  had  him  in  your  power,"  said  Corentin. 

''Very  hkely.'' 

''Why  did  you  stop  me  when  I  had  him?"  asked 
Hulot. 

"I  did  not  know  what  he  would  prove  to  be,"  she 
cried.  Then,  suddenly,  the  excited  woman,  who  was 
walking  up  and  down  with  hurried  steps  and  casting 
savage  glances  at  the  spectators  of  the  storm,  calmed 
down.  "  I  do  not  know  myself,"  she  said,  in  a  man's 
tone.     "  Why  talk?   I  must  go  and  find  him." 


The  Chouans.  207 

"  Go  and  find  him  ?  "  said  Hulot.  "  M}^  dear  woman, 
take  care  ;  we  are  not  yet  masters  of  this  part  of  the 
country  ;  if  you  venture  outside  of  the  town  3'ou  will  be 
taken  or  killed  before  you  've  gone  a  hundred  yards." 

"  There  's  never  any  danger  for  those  who  seek  ven- 
geance," she  said,  driving  from  her  presence  with  a 
disdainful  gesture  the  two  men  whom  she  was  ashamed 
to  face. 

"  What  a  woman  !  "  cried  Hulot,  as  he  walked  away 
with  Corentin.  "  A  queer  idea  of  those  police  fellows 
in  Paris  to  send  her  here  ;  but  she  '11  never  deliver  him 
up  to  us,"  he  added,  shaking  his  head. 

"  Oh  yes,  she  will,"  replied  Corentin. 

"  Don't  you  see  she  loves  him?  "  said  Hulot. 

*'  That 's  just  why  she  will.  Besides,"  looking  at  the 
amazed  commandant,  "I  am  here  to  see  that  she 
does  n't  commit  any  folly.  In  my  opinion,  comrade, 
there  is  no  love  in  the  world  worth  the  three  hundred 
thousand  francs  she  '11  make  out  of  this." 

When  the  police  diplomatist  left  the  soldier  the  latter 
stood  looking  after  him,  and  as  the  sound  of  the  man's 
steps  died  away  he  gave  a  sigh,  muttering  to  himself, 
"  It  may  be  a  good  thing  after  all  to  be  such  a  dullard 
as  I  am.  God's  thunder !  if  I  meet  the  Gars  I  '11  fight 
him  hand  to  hand,  or  my  name  's  not  Hulot ;  for  if  that 
fox  brings  him  before  me  in  any  of  their  new-fangled 
councils  of  war,  my  honor  will  be  as  soiled  as  the  shirt 
of  a  young  trooper  who  is  under  fire  for  the  first  time." 

The  massacre  at  La  Viveti^re,  and  the  desire  to 
avenge  his  friends  had  led  Hulot  to  accept  a  reinstate- 
ment in  his  late  command  ;  in  fact,  the  new  minister, 
Berthier,  had  refused  to  accept  his  resignation  under 
existing  circumstances.     To  the  oflEicial  dispatch  was 


208  The  Chouans. 

added  a  private  letter,  in  which,  without  explaining  the 
mission  of  Mademoiselle  de  Verneail,  the  minister  in- 
formed him  that  the  affair  was  entirely  outside  of  the 
war,  and  was  not  to  interfere  with  an}'  mUitar}'  opera- 
tions. The  dut}'  of  the  commanders,  he  said,  was  lim- 
ited to  giving  needed  assistance  to  that  honorable 
citoyenne^  if  occasion  arose.  Learning  from  his  scouts 
that  the  movements  of  the  Chouans  all  tended  towards 
a  concentration  of  their  forces  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Foug^res,  Hulot  had  secretl}-  and  with  forced  marches 
brought  two  battalions  of  his  brigade  into  the  town. 
The  nation's  danger,  his  hatred  of  aristocrac}^  whose 
partisans  threatened  to  convulse  so  large  a  section  of 
country,  his  desire  to  avenge  his  murdered  friends, 
revived  in  the  old  veteran  the  fire  of  his  youth. 

"  So  this  is  the  life  I  craved,"  exclaimed  Mademoi- 
selle de  Verneuil,  when  she  was  left  alone  with  Fran- 
cine.  "  No  matter  how  fast  the  hours  go,  they  are  to 
me  like  centuries  of  thought." 

Suddenl}'  she  took  Francine's  hand,  and  her  voice, 
soft  as  that  of  the  first  red-throat  singing  after  a  storm, 
slowly  gave  sound  to  the  following  words  :  — 

'*  Try  as  I  will  to  forget  them,  I  see  those  two  deli- 
cious lips,  that  chin  just  raised,  those  e3'es  of  fire  ;  I 
hear  the  '  Hue  ! '  of  the  postilion  ;  I  dream,  I  dream,  — 
why  then  such  hatred  on  awakening !  " 

She  drew  a  long  sigh,  rose,  and  then  for  the  first  time 
looked  out  upon  the  country  delivered  over  to  civil  war 
by  the  cruel  leader  whom  she  was  plotting  to  destroy. 
Attracted  by  the  scene  she  wandered  out  to  breathe  at 
her  ease  beneath  the  sky ;  and  though  her  steps  con- 
ducted her  at  a  venture,  she  was   surely  led  to  the 


The   Chouans.  209 

Promenade  of  the  town  by  one  of  those  occult  impulses 
of  the  soul  which  lead  us  to  follow  hope  irrationally. 
Thoughts  conceived  under  the  dominion  of  that  spell 
are  often  realized ;  but  we  then  attribute  their  pre- 
vision to  a  power  we  call  presentiment,  —  an  inexpli- 
cable power,  but  a  real  one,  —  which  our  passions  find 
accommodating,  like  a  flatterer  wlio,  among  his  many 
lies,  does  sometimes  tell  the  truth. 


14 


210  The   Chouans, 


III. 

A  DAY  WITHOUT  A  MORROW. 

The  preceding  events  of  this  history  having  been 
greatly  influenced  by  the  formation  of  the  regions  in 
which  the}'  happened,  it  is  desirable  to  give  a  minute 
description  of  them,  without  which  the  closing  scenes 
might  be  difficult  of  comprehension. 

The  town  of  Foug^res  is  partly  built  upon  a  slate 
rock,  which  seems  to  have  slipped  from  the  mountains 
that  hem  in  the  broad  valley  of  Couesnon  to  the  west 
and  take  various  names  according  to  their  localities. 
The  town  is  separated  from  the  mountains  by  a  gorge, 
through  which  flows  a  small  river  called  the  Nangon. 
To  the  east,  the  view  is  the  same  as  from  the  summit 
of  La  Pelerine  ;  to  the  west,  the  town  looks  down  into 
the  tortuous  valle}^  of  the  Nan9on  ;  but  there  is  a  spot 
from  which  a  section  of  the  great  vallej'  and  the  pictur- 
esque windings  of  the  gorge  can  be  seen  at  the  same 
time.  This  place,  chosen  by  the  inhabitants  of  the 
town  for  their  Promenade,  and  to  which  the  steps  of 
Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  were  now  turned,  was  des- 
tined to  be  the  theatre  on  which  the  drama  begun  at 
La  Vivetiere  was  to  end.  Therefore,  however  pictur- 
esque the  other  parts  of  Fougeres  may  be,  attention 
must  be  particularly  given  to  the  scenery  which  meets 
the  eye  from  this  terrace. 


The  Chouans.  211 

To  give  an  idea  of  the  rock  on  which  Fougeres 
stands,  as  seen  on  this  side,  we  may  compare  it  to  one 
of  those  immense  towers  circled  by  Saracen  architects 
with  balconies  on  each  story,  which  were  reached  by 
spiral  stairwaj^s.  To  add  to  this  effect,  the  rock  is 
capped  by  a  Gothic  church,  the  small  spires,  clock- 
tower,  and  buttresses  of  which  make  its  shape  almost 
precisely  that  of  a  sugar-loaf.  Before  the  portal  of  this 
church,  which  is  dedicated  to  Saint- Leonard,  is  a  small, 
irregular  square,  where  the  soil  is  held  up  by  a  but- 
tressed wall,  which  forms  a  balustrade  and  communi- 
cates by  a  flight  of  steps  with  the  Promenade.  This 
public  walk,  like  a  second  cornice,  extends  round  the 
rock  a  few  rods  below  the  square  of  Saint-Leonard ;  it 
is  a  broad  piece  of  ground  planted  with  trees,  and  it 
joins  the  fortifications  of  the  town.  About  ten  rods 
below  the  walls  and  rocks,  which  support  this  Prome- 
nade (due  to  a  happy  combination  of  indestructible  slate 
and  patient  industry)  another  circular  road  exists, 
called  the  "Queen's  Staircase;"  this  is  cut  in  the 
rock  itself  and  leads  to  a  bridge  built  across  the  Nan^on 
by  Anne  of  Brittany.  Below  this  road,  .which  forms 
a  third  cornice,  gardens  descend,  terrace  after  terrace, 
to  the  river,  like  shelves  covered  with  flowers. 

Parallel  with  the  Promenade,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Nanqon  and  across  its  narrow  valley,  high  rock- 
formations,  called  the  heights  of  Saint-Sulpice,  follow 
the  stream  and  descend  in  gentle  slopes  to  the  great 
valley,  where  they  turn  abruptly  to  the  north.  To- 
wards the  south,  where  the  town  itself  really  ends  and 
the  faubourg  Saint- Leonard  begins,  the  Fougeres  rock 
makes  a  bend,  becomes  less  steep,  and  turns  into  the 
great  valley,  following  the  course  of  the  river,  which  it 


212  The   Chouans. 

hems  in  between  itself  and  the  heights  of  Saint-Sulpice, 
forming  a  sort  of  pass  through  which  the  water  es- 
capes in  two  streamlets  to  the  Couesnon,  into  which 
they  fall.  This  pretty  group  of  rocky  hills  is  called  the 
' '  Nid-aux-Crocs  ;  "  the  little  vale  they  surround  is  the 
'' Val  de  Gibarry,"  the  rich  pastures  of  which  supply 
the  butter  known  to  epicures  as  that  of  the  "  Pr^e- 
Valaye." 

At  the  point  where  the  Promenade  joins  the  fortifica- 
tions is  a  tower  called  the  ''  Tour  de  Papegaut."  Close 
to  this  square  erection,  against  the  side  of  which  the 
house  now  occupied  b}-  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  rested, 
is  a  wall,  partly  built  by  hands  and  parti}'  formed  of 
the  native  rock  where  it  offered  a  smooth  surface. 
Here  stands  a  gateway  leading  to  the  faubourg  of  Saint- 
Sulpice  and  bearing  the  same  name.  Above,  on  a 
breastwork  of  granite  which  commands  the  three  val- 
le3"s,  rise  the  battlements  and  feudal  towers  of  the 
ancient  castle  of  Foug^res,  —  one  of  those  enormous 
erections  built  by  the  Dukes  of  Brittany,  with  lofty 
walls  fifteen  feet  thick,  protected  on  the  east  by  a  pond 
from  which  flows  the  NanQon,  the  waters  of  which  fill 
its  moats,  and  on  the  west  by  the  inaccessible  granite 
rock  on  which  it  stands. 

Seen  from  the  Promenade,  this  magnificent  relic  of 
the  Middle  Ages,  wrapped  in  its  iv}-  mantle,  adorned 
with  its  square  or  rounded  towers,  in  either  of  which  a 
whole  regiment  could  be  quartered,  —  the  castle,  the 
town,  and  the  rock,  protected  by  walls  with  sheer  sur- 
faces, or  by  the  glacis  of  the  fortifications,  form  a  huge 
horseshoe,  lined  with  precipices,  on  which  the  Bretons 
have,  in  course  of  ages,  cut  various  narrow  footways. 
Here  and  there  the  rocks  push  out  like  architectural 


The   Chouans.  218 

adornments.  Streamlets  issue  from  the  fissures,  where 
the  roots  of  stunted  trees  are  nourished.  Farther  on,  a 
few  rocky  slopes,  less  perpendicular  than  the  rest,  afford 
a  scanty  pasture  for  the  goats.  On  all  sides  heather, 
growing  from  every  crevice,  flings  its  rosy  garlands 
over  the  dark,  uneven  surface  of  the  ground.  At  the 
bottom  of  this  vast  funnel  the  little  river  winds  through 
meadows  that  are  always  cool  and  green,  lying  softly 
like  a  carpet. 

Beneath  the  castle  and  among  the  granite  bowlders 
is  a  church  dedicated  to  Saint-Sulpice,  whose  name 
is  given  to  the  suburb  which  lies  across  the  Nanqon. 
This  suburb,  flung  as  it  were  to  the  bottom  of  a  preci- 
pice, and  its  church,  the  spire  of  which  does  not  rise  to 
the  height  of  the  rocks  which  threaten  to  crush  it,  are 
picturesquely  watered  by  several  affluents  of  the  Nan- 
9on,  shaded  by  trees  and  brightened  by  gardens.  The 
whole  region  of  Foug^res,  its  suburbs,  its  churches,  and 
the  hills  of  Saint-Sulpice  are  surrounded  by  the  heights 
of  Rille,  which  form  part  of  a  general  range  of  moun- 
tains inclosing  the  broad  vallej'  of  Couesnon. 

Such  are  the  chief  features  of  this  landscape,  the 
principal  characteristic  of  which  is  a  rugged  wildness 
softened  b}"  smiling  accidents,  by  a  happy  blending  of  the 
finest  works  of  men's  hands  with  the  capricious  lay  of 
a  land  full  of  unexpected  contrasts,  by  a  something, 
hardly  to  be  explained,  which  surprises,  astonishes,  and 
puzzles.  In  no  other  part  of  France  can  the  traveller 
meet  with  such  grandiose  contrasts  as  those  off'ered  by 
the  great  basin  of  the  Couesnon,  and  the  valleys  hidden 
among  the  rocks  of  Fougeres  and  the  heights  of  Rill6. 
Their  beauty  is  of  that  unspeakable  kind  in  which 
chance  triumphs  and  all  the  harmonies  of  Nature  do 


214  The  Okouans. 

their  part.  The  clear,  limpid,  flowing  waters,  the 
mountains  clothed  with  the  vigorous  vegetation  of  those 
regions,  the  sombre  rocks,  the  graceful  buildings,  the 
fortifications  raised  by  nature,  and  the  granite  towers 
built  by  man ;  combmed  with  all  the  artifices  of  light 
and  shade,  with  the  contrasts  of  the  varieties  of  foliage, 
with  the  groups  of  houses  where  an  active  population 
swarms,  with  the  lonelj^  barren  places  where  the  granite 
will  not  sufl^ev  even  the  lichen  to  fasten  on  its  surface, 
in  short,  with  all  the  ideas  we  ask  a  landscape  to 
possess :  grace  and  awfulness,  poesy  with  its  renascent 
magic,  sublime  pictures,  delightful  ruralities,  —  all  these 
are  here  ;  it  is  Brittany  in  bloom. 

The  tower  called  the  Papegaut,  against  which  the 
house  now  occupied  by  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil 
rested,  has  its  base  at  the  very  bottom  of  the  preci- 
pice, and  rises  to  the  esplanade  which  forms  the  cornice 
or  terrace  before  the  church  of  Saint-Leonard.  From 
Marie's  house,  which  was  open  on  three  sides,  could  be 
seen  the  horseshoe  (which  begins  at  the  tower  itself) , 
the  winding  valley  of  the  NanQon,  and  the  square  of 
Saint-Leonard.  It  is  one  of  a  group  of  wooden  build- 
ings standing  parallel  with  the  western  side  of  the 
church,  with  which  they  form  an  alley-waj^  the  farther 
end  of  which  opens  on  a  steep  street  skirting  the  church 
and  leading  to  the  gate  of  Saint-Leonard,  along  which 
Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  now  made  her  way. 

Marie  naturally  avoided  entering  the  square  of  the 
church  which  was  then  above  her,  and  turned  towards 
the  Promenade.  The  magnificence  of  the  scene  which 
met  her  eyes  silenced  for  a  moment  the  tumult  of  her 
passions.  She  admired  the  vast  trend  of  the  valley, 
which  her  eyes  took  in,  from  the  summit  of  La  Pelerine 


The   Chouans.  215 

to  the  plateau  where  the  main  road  to  Vitry  passes  ;  then 
her  eyes  rested  on  the  Nid-aux-Crocs  and  the  winding 
gorges  of  the  Val  de  Gibarry,  the  crests  of  which  were 
bathed  in  the  mist}^  glow  of  the  setting  sun.  She  was 
almost  frightened  by  the  depth  of  the  valley  of  the 
NanQon,  the  tallest  poplars  of  which  scarcely  reached 
to  the  level  of  the  gardens  below  the  Queen's  Stair- 
case. At  this  time  of  day  the  smoke  from  the  houses 
in  the  suburbs  and  in  the  valleys  made  a  vapor  in  the 
air,  through  which  the  various  objects  had  a  bluish 
tinge  ;  the  brilliant  colors  of  the  day  were  beginning  to 
fade  ;  the  firmament  took  a  pearly  tone  ;  the  moon  was 
casting  its  veil  of  light  into  the  ravine  ;  all  things  tended 
to  plunge  the  soul  into  revery  and  bring  back  the  mem- 
ory of  those  beloved. 

In  a  moment  the  scene  before  her  was  powerless  to 
hold   Marie's   thoughts.     In  vain  did   the  setting  sun 
cast  its  gold-dust  and  its  crimson  sheets  to  the  depths 
of  the  river  and  along  the  meadows  and  over  the  grace- 
ful buildings  strewn  among  the  rocks  ;  she  stood  immov- 
able, gazing  at  the  heights  of  the  Mont  Saint-Sulpice. 
The  frantic  hope  which  had  led  her  to  the  Promenade 
was   miraculously  realized.      Among    the    gorse   and 
bracken  which  grew  upon  those  heights  she  was  certain 
that  she  recognized,  in   spite  of  the   goatskins  which 
they  wore,  a  number  of  the  guests  at  La  Vivetiere,  and  i    ^    ^ 
among   them   the   Gars,   whose   every   movement   be-  | 
came  vivid  to  her  e}' es  in  the  softened  light  of  the  sink-  \ 
ing  sun,     A  few  steps  back  of  the  group  of  men  she  ) 
distinguished  her  enemy,  Madame  du  Gua.     For  a  mo- 
ment Marie  fancied  that  she  dreamed,  but  her  rival's 
hatred  soon  proved  to  her  that  the  dream  was  a  living 
one.     The  attention  she  was  giving  to  the  least  little 


216  The  Ohouans. 

gesture  of  the  marquis  prevented  her  from  observing 
the  care  with  which  Madame  du  Gua  aimed  a  musket 
at  her.  But  a  shot  which  woke  the  echoes  of  the  moun- 
tains, and  a  ball  that  whistled  past  her  warned  Ma- 
demoiselle de  Verneuil  of  her  rival's  determination. 
"  She  sends  me  her  card,"  thought  Marie,  smiling. 
Instantly  a  "  Qui  vive?"  echoing  from  sentry  to  sentry, 
from  the  castle  to  the  Porte  Saint-Leonard,  proved  to 
the  Chouans  the  alertness  of  the  Blues,  inasmuch  as  the 
least  accessible  of  their  ramparts  was  so  well  guarded. 

"  It  is  she  —  and  he,"  muttered  Marie  to  herself. 

To  seek  the  marquis,  follow  his  steps  and  overtake 
him,  was  a  thought  that  flashed  like  lightning  through  her 
mind.  *'  I  have  no  weapon  !  "  she  cried.  She  remem- 
bered that  on  leaving  Paris  she  had  flung  into  a  trunk 
an  elegant  dagger  formerh^  belonging  to  a  sultana, 
which  she  had  jestingly  brought  with  her  to  the  theatre 
of  war,  as  some  persons  take  note-books  in  which  to 
jot  down  their  travelhng  ideas  ;  «he  was  less  attracted 
by  the  prospect  of  shedding  blood  than  by  the  pleasure 
of  wearing  a  pretty  weapon  studded  with  precious 
stones,  and  playing  with  a  blade  that  was  stainless. 
Three  days  earlier  she  had  deeply  regretted  having  put 
this  dagger  in  a  trunk,  when  to  escape  her  enemies  at 
La  Vivetiere  she  had  thought  for  a  moment  of  killing 
herself.  She  now  returned  to  the  house,  found  the 
weapon,  put  it  in  her  belt,  wrapped  a  large  shawl  round 
her  shoulders  and  a  black  lace  scarf  about  her  hair,  and 
covered  her  head  with  one  of  those  broad-brimmed  hats 
distinctive  of  Chouans  which  belonged  to  a  servant  of 
the  house.  Then,  with  the  presence  of  mind  which 
excited  passions  often  give,  she  took  the  glove  which 
Marche-a-Terre   had  given   her   as   a   safeguard,   and 


The   Ohouans.  217 

saying,  in  reply  to  Francine's  terrified  looks,  "  I  would 
seek  him  in  hell,"  she  returned  to  the  Promenade. 

The  Gars  was  still  at  the  same  place,  but  alone.  By 
the  direction  of  his  telescope  he  seemed  to  be  examin- 
ing with  the  careful  attention  of  a  commander  the 
various  paths  across  the  NanQon,  the  Queen's  Stair- 
case, and  the  road  leading  through  the  Porte  Saint- 
Sulpice  and  round  the  church  of  that  name,  where  it 
meets  the  high-road  under  range  of  the  guns  at  the 
castle.  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  took  one  of  the  little 
paths  made  by  goats  and  their  keepers  leading  down 
from  the  Promenade,  reached  the  Staircase,  then  the 
bottom  of  the  ravine,  crossed  the  Nanqon  and  the  sub- 
urb, and  divining  like  a  bird  in  the  desert  her  right 
course  among  the  dangerous  precipices  of  the  Mont 
Saint-Sulpice,  she  followed  a  slippery  track  defined  upon 
the  granite,  and  in  spite  of  the  prickly  gorse  and  reeds 
and  loose  stones  which  hindered  her,  she  climbed  the 
steep  ascent  with  an  energy  greater  perhaps  than  that  of 
a  man,  —  the  energy  momentarily  possessed  by  a  woman 
under  the  influence  of  passion. 

Night  overtook  her  as  she  endeavored  by  the  failing 
moonlight  to  make  out  the  path  the  marquis  must  have 
taken  ;  an  obstinate  quest  without  reward,  for  the  dead 
silence  about  her  was  sufficient  proof  of  the  withdrawal 
of  the  Chouans  and  their  leader.  This  effort  of  passion 
collapsed  with  the  hope  that  inspired  it.  Finding  her- 
self alone,  after  nightfall,  in  a  hostile  country,  she  be- 
gan to  reflect ;  and  Hulot's  advice,  together  with  the 
recollection  of  Madame  du  Gua's  attempt,  made  her 
tremble  with  fear.  The  stillness  of  the  night,  so  deep 
in  mountain  regions,  enabled  her  to  hear  the  fall  of 
every  leaf  even  at  a  distance,  and  these  slight  sounds 


218  The  Ohouans. 

vibrated  on  the  air  as  though  to  give  a  measure  of  the 
silence  or  the  solitude.  The  wind  was  blowing  across 
the  heights  and  sweeping  away  the  clouds  with  violence, 
producing  an  alternation  of  shadows  and  light,  the  effect 
of  which  increased  her  fears,  and  gave  fantastic  and 
terrifying  semblances  to  the  most  harmless  objects. 
She  turned  her  eyes  to  the  houses  of  Foug^res,  where 
the  domestic  lights  were  burning  like  so  many  earthly 
stars,  and  she  presently  saw  distinctly  the  tower  of 
Papegaut.  She  was  but  a  very  short  distance  from  her 
own  house,  but  within  that  space  was  the  ravine.  She 
remembered  the  declivities  which  bordered  the  narrow 
path  bj^  which  she  had  come,  and  wondered  if  there 
were  not  more  risk  in  attempting  to  return  to  Fougeres 
than  in  following  out  the  purpose  which  had  brought 
her.  She  reflected  that  the  marquis's  glove  would 
surel}^  protect  her  from  the  Chouans,  and  that  Madame 
du  Gua  was  the  only  enemy  to  be  really  feared.  With 
this  idea  in  her  mind,  Marie  clasped  her  dagger,  and 
tried  to  find  the  way  to  a  country  house  the  roofs  of 
which  she  had  noticed  as  she  climbed  Saint-Sulpice  ;  but 
she  walked  slowly,  for  she  suddenly  became  aware  of 
the  majestic  solemnit}^  which  oppresses  a  solitary  being 
in  the  night  time  in  the  midst  of  wild  scenery,  where 
lofty  niountains  nod  their  heads  like  assembled  giants. 
The  rustle  of  her  gown,  caught  by  the  brambles,  made 
her  tremble  more  than  once,  and  more  than  once  she 
hastened  her  steps  only  to  slacken  them  again  as  she 
thought  her  last  hour  had  come.  Before  long  matters 
assumed  an  aspect  which  the  boldest  men  could  not 
have  faced  without  alarm,  and  which  threw  Mademoi- 
selle de  Verneuil  into  the  sort  of  terror  that  so  affects 
the  very  springs  of  life  that  all  things  become  excessive, 


The   Chouans.  219 

weakness  as  well  as  strength.  The  feeblest  beings  will 
then  do  deeds  of  amazing  power  ;  the  strongest  go  mad 
with  fear. 

Marie  heard  at  a  short  distance  a  number  of  strange 
sounds,  distinct  yet  vague,  indicative  of  confusion  and 
tumult,  fatiguing  to  the  ear  which  tried  to  distinguish 
them.  They  came  from  the  ground,  which  seemed  to 
tremble  beneath  the  feet  of  a  multitude  of  marching 
men.  A  momentary  clearness  in  the  sky  enabled 
her  to  perceive  at  a  little  distance  long  files  of  hideous 
figures  waving  like  ears  of  corn  and  gliding  like  phan- 
toms ;  but  she  scarcely  saw  them,  for  darkness  fell 
again,  like  a  black  curtain,  and  hid  the  fearful  scene 
which  seemed  to  her  full  of  yellow,  dazzling  eyes.  She 
turned  hastily  and  ran  to  the  top  of  a  bank  to  escape 
meeting  three  of  these  horrible  figures  who  were  coming 
towards  her. 

**  Did  3'ou  see  it?  "  said  one. 

*'  I  felt  a  cold  wind  as  it  rushed  past  me,"  replied  a 
hoarse  voice. 

"I  smelt  a  damp  and  graveyard  smell,"  said  the 
third. 

"  Was  it  white?"  asked  the  first. 

"  Why  should  only  he  come  back  out  of  all  those  we 
left  dead  at  La  Pelerine?  "  said  the  second. 

"Why  indeed?"  replied  the  third.  "Why  do  the 
Sacre-Cceur  men  have  the  preference?  Well,  at  any 
rate,  I  'd  rather  die  without  confession  than  wander 
about  as  he  does,  without  eating  or  drinking,  and  no 
blood  in  his  body  or  flesh  on  his  bones." 

"  Ah ! " 

This  exclamation,  or  rather  this  fearful  cry,  issued 
from  the  group  as  the  three  Chouans  pointed  to  the 


220  The  Chouans. 

slender  form  and  pallid  face  of  Mademoiselle  de  Ver- 
neuil,  who  fled  away  with  terrified  rapidity  without  a 
sound. 

*' Here  he  is!"  '^  There  he  is  ! "  "Where?"  "There!" 
"He's  gone!"  "No!"  "Yes!"  "  Can  you  see  him  ?  " 
These  cries  reverberated  like  the  monotonous  murmur 
of  waves  upon  a  shore. 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  walked  bravely  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  house  she  had  seen,  and  soon  came  in 
sight  of  a  number  of  persons,  who  all  fled  away  at  her 
approach  with  every  sign  of  panic  fear.  She  felt  im- 
pelled to  advance  by  a  mysterious  power  which  coerced 
her ;  the  lightness  of  her  bod}^  which  seemed  to  herself 
inexplicable,  was  another  source  of  terror.  These  forms 
which  rose  in  masses  at  her  approach,  as  if  from  the 
ground  on  which  she  trod,  uttered  moans  which  were 
scarcely  human.  At  last  she  reached,  not  without 
diflEiculty,  a  trampled  garden,  the  hedges  and  fences  of 
which  were  broken  down.  Stopped  by  a  sentry-,  she 
showed  the  glove.  The  moon  lighted  her  face,  and  the 
muzzle  of  the  gun  already  pointed  at  her  was  dropped 
b}^  the  Chouan,  who  uttered  a  hoarse  crj',  which  echoed 
through  the  place.  She  now  saw  large  buildings, 
where  a  few  lighted  windows  showed  the  rooms  that 
were  occupied,  and  presently  reached  the  walls  without 
further  hindrance.  Through  the  window  into  which 
she  looked,  she  saw  Madame  du  Gua  and  the  leaders 
who  were  convoked  at  La  Vivetiere.  Bewildered  at 
the  sight,  also  by  the  conviction  of  her  danger,  she 
turned  hastily  to  a  little  opening  protected  b}'  iron 
bars,  and  saw  in  a  long  vaulted  hall  the  marquis,  alone 
and  gloomy,  within  six  feet  of  her.  The  reflection  of 
the  fire,  before  which  he  was  sitting  in  a  clumsy  chair, 


The  Chouans.  221 

lighted  his  face  with  a  vacillating  ruddy  glow  that  gave 
the  character  of  a  vision  to  the  scene.  Motionless  and 
trembling,  the  girl  stood  clinging  to  the  bars,  hoping, 
in  the  deep  silence  that  pervaded  everything,  to  catch 
his  words  if  he  spoke.  Seeing  him  so  depressed,  dis- 
heartened, and  pale,  she  believed  herself  the  cause  of 
his  sadness.  Her  anger  changed  to  pity,  her  pity  to 
tenderness,  and  she  suddenly  knew  that  it  was  not  re- 
venge alone  which  had  brought  her  there. 

The  marquis  rose,  turned  his  head,  and  stood  amazed 
when  he  saw,  as  if  in  a  cloud,  Mademoiselle  de  Ver- 
neuil's  face  ;  then  he  shook  his  head  with  a  gesture  of 
impatience  and  contempt,  exclaiming  :  "  Must  I  forever 
see  the  face  of  that  devil,  even  when  awake?  " 

This  utter  contempt  for  her  forced  a  half-maddened 
laugh  from  the  unhappy  girl  which  made  the  young 
leader  quiver.  He  sprang  to  the  window,  but  Made- 
moiselle de  Verneuil  was  gone.  She  heard  the  steps  of 
a  man  behind  her,  which  she  supposed  to  be  those  of 
the  marquis,  and,  to  escape  him,  she  knew  no  obstacles  ; 
she  would  have  scaled  walls  and  flown  through  air ;  she 
would  have  found  and  followed  a  path  to  hell  sooner 
than  have  seen  again,  in  flaming  letters  on  the  fore- 
head of  that  man,  "  I  despise  3'ou,"  —  words  which  an 
inward  voice  sounded  in  her  soul  with  the  noise  of  a 
trumpet. 

After  walking  a  short  distance  without  knowing 
where  she  went,  she  stopped,  conscious  of  a  damp  ex- 
halation. Alarmed  b}  the  sound  of  voices,  she  went 
down  some  steps  which  led  into  a  cellar.  As  she 
reached  the  last  of  them,  she  stopped  to  listen  and  dis- 
cover the  direction  her  pursuers  might  take.  Above 
the  sounds  from   the   outside,   which   were   somewhat 


222  The  Chouans. 

loud,  she  could  hear  within  the  lugubrious  moans  of  a 
human  being,  which  added  to  her  terror.  Rays  of  light 
coming  down  the  steps  made  her  fear  that  this  retreat 
was  only  too  well  known  to  her  enemies,  and,  to  escape 
them,  she  summoned  fresh  energy.  Some  moments 
later,  after  recovering  her  composure  of  mind,  it  was 
difficult  for  her  to  conceive  by  what  means  she  had 
been  able  to  climb  a  little  wall,  in  a  recess  of  which  she 
was  now  hidden.  She  took  no  notice  at  first  of  the 
cramped  position  in  which  she  was,  but  before  long 
the  pain  of  it  became  intolerable,  for  she  was  bending 
double  under  the  arched  opening  of  a  vault,  like  the 
crouching  Venus  which  ignorant  persons  attempt  to 
squeeze  into  too  narrow  a  niche.  The  wall,  which 
was  rather  thick  and  built  of  granite,  formed  a  low 
partition  between  the  stairway  and  the  cellar  whence 
the  groans  were  issuing.  Presently  she  saw  an  indi- 
vidual, clothed  in  a  goatskin,  enter  the  cave  beneath 
her,  and  move  about,  without  making  any  sign  of  eager 
search.  Impatient  to  discover  if  she  had  any  chance 
of  safety,  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  waited  with  anxi- 
ety till  the  light  brought  by  the  new-comer  Mghted  the 
whole  cave,  where  she  could  parti}'  distinguish  a  form- 
less but  living  mass  which  was  trying  to  reach  a  part  of 
the  wall,  with  violent  and  repeated  jerks,  something 
like  those  of  a  carp  Ij'ing  out  of  the  water  on  a  shore. 

A  small  pine  torch  threw  its  blue  and  hazy  light  into 
the  cave.  In  spite  of  the  gloom}'  poetic  effects  which 
Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil's  imagination  cast  about  this 
vaulted  chamber,  which  was  echoing  to  the  sounds  of  a 
pitiful  praj'^er,  she  was  obliged  to  admit  that  the  place 
was  nothing  more  than  an  underground  kitchen,  evi- 
dently long  abandoned.    When  the  formless  mass  was 


The   Chouans.  223 

distinguishable  it  proved  to  be  a  short  and  very  fat 
man,  whose  limbs  were  carefully  bound  before  he 
had  been  left  lying  on  the  damp  stone  floor  of  the 
kitchen  by  those  who  had  seized  him.  When  he  saw 
the  new-comer  approach  him  with  a  torch  in  one  hand 
and  a  fagot  of  sticks  in  the  other,  the  captive  gave  a 
dreadful  groan,  which  so  wrought  upon  the  sensibilities 
of  Mademoiselle  de  Verijeuil  that  she  forgot  her  own 
terror  and  despair  and  the  cramped  position  of  all  her 
limbs,  which  were  growing  numb.  But  she  made  a 
great  effort  and  remained  still.  The  Chouan  flung  the 
sticks  into  the  fireplace,  after  trying  the  strength  of  an 
old  crane  which  was  fastened  to  a  long  iron  bar ;  then 
he  set  fire  to  the  wood  with  his  torch.  Marie  saw  with 
terror  that  the  man  was  the  same  Pille-Miche  to  whom 
her  rival  had  delivered  her,  and  whose  figure,  illumin- 
ated by  the  flame,  was  like  that  of  the  little  boxwood 
men  so  grotesquely  carved  in  German}'.  The  moans  of 
his  prisoner  produced  a  broad  grin  upon  features  that 
were  ribbed  with  wrinkles  and  tanned  bj^  the  sun. 

"You  see,"  he  said  to  his  victim,  "  that  we  Chris- 
tians keep  our  promises,  which  you  don't.  That  fire  is 
going  to  thaw  out  your  legs  and  tongue  and  hands. 
Hey !  hey  !  I  don't  see  a  dripping-pan  to  put  under 
your  feet ;  they  are  so  fat  the  grease  may  put  out  the 
fire.  Your  house  must  be  badly  furnished  if  it  can't 
give  its  master  all  he  wants  to  warm  him." 

The  victim  uttered  a  sharp  cry,  as  if  he  hoped  some- 
one would  hear  him  through  the  ceiling  and  come  to  his 
assistance. 

"Ho!  sing  away,  Monsieur  d'Orgemont ;  they  are 
all  asleep  upstairs,  and  Marche-a-Terre  is  just  behind 
me  ;    he  '11  shut  the  cellar  door." 


224-  The   Chouans. 

While  speaking  Pille-Miche  was  sounding  with  the 
butt-end  of  his  musket  the  mantel-piece  of  the  chimne}^, 
the  tiles  of  the  floor,  the  walls  and  the  ovens,  to  dis- 
cover, if  possible,  where  the  miser  hid  his  gold.  This 
search  was  made  with  such  adroitness  that  d'Orgemont 
kept  silence,  as  if  he  feared  to  have  been  betrayed  by 
some  frightened  servant ;  for,  though  he  trusted  his 
secrets  to  no  one,  his  habits  gave  plent}-  of  ground  for 
logical  deductions.  Pille-Miche  turned  several  times 
sharply  to  look  at  his  victim,  as  children  do  when  they 
try  to  guess,  by  the  conscious  expression  of  the  comrade 
who  has  hidden  an  article,  whether  they  are  nearer  or 
farther  away  from  it.  D'Orgemont  pretended  to  be 
alarmed  when  the  Chouan  tapped  the  ovens,  which 
sounded  hollow,  and  seemed  to  wish  to  play  upon  his 
eager  credulity.  Just  then  three  other  Chouans  rushed 
down  the  steps  and  entered  the  kitchen.  Seeing 
Marche-k-Terre  among  them  Pille-Miche  discontinued 
his  search,  after  casting  upon  d'Orgemont  a  look  that 
conveyed  the  wrath  of  his  balked  covetousness. 

"  Marie  Lambrequin  has  come  to  life  !  "  cried  Marche- 
a-Terre,  proclaiming  by  his  manner  that  all  other  inter- 
ests were  of  no  account  beside  this  great  piece  of  news. 

"  I  'm  not  surprised,"  said  Pille-Miche,  '•  he  took  the 
sacrament  so  often  ;  the  good  God  belonged  to  him." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  "  observed  Mene-a-Bien,  "  that  did  n't  stand 
him  in  anything  at  his  death.  He  had  n't  received  ab- 
solution before  the  affair  at  La  Pelerine.  He  had  cheap- 
ened Goguelu's  daughter,  and  was  living  in  mortal  sin. 
The  Abbe  Gudin  said  he'd  have  to  roam  round  two 
months  as  a  ghost  before  he  could  come  to  life.  We 
saw  him  pass  us,  —  he  was  pale,  he  was  cold,  he  was 
thin,  he  smelt  of  the  cemetery." 


The   Chouans.  225 

"And  his  Reverence  says  that  if  a  ghost  gets  hold 
of  a  living  man  he  can  force  him  to  be  his  companion," 
said  the  fourth  Chouan. 

The  grotesque  appearance  of  the  last  speaker  drew 
Marche-a-Terre  from  the  pious  reflections  he  had  been 
making  on  the  accomplishment  of  this  miracle  of  com- 
ing to  life  which,  according  to  the  Abbe  Gudin  would 
happen  to  every  true  defender  of  religion  and  the  king. 

"You  see,  Galope-Chopine,"  he  said  to  the  fourth 
man  gravel}',  ''  what  comes  of  omitting  even  the  small- 
est duty  commanded  by  our  holy  religion.  It  is  a 
warning  to  us,  given  by  Saint  Anne  of  Auray,  to  be 
rigorous  with  ourselves  for  the  slightest  sin.  Your 
cousin  Pille-Miche  has  asked  the  Gars  to  give  you  the 
surveillance  of  Fougeres,  and  the  Gars  consents,  and 
you'll  be  well  paid  —  but  you  know  with  what  flour  we 
bake  a  traitor's  bread." 

"  Yes,  Monsieur  Marche-a-Terre." 

"  And  you  know  why  I  tell  you  that.  Some  say  you 
like  cider  and  gambling,  but  you  can't  play  heads  or  tails 
now,  remember  ;  you  must  belong  to  us  only,  or  —  " 

"By  3-our  leave.  Monsieur  Marche-a-Terre,  cider 
and  stakes  are  two  good  things  which  don't  hinder  a 
man's  salvation." 

"If  my  cousin  commits  any  folly,"  said  Pille-Miche, 
"  it  will  be  out  of  ignorance." 

"  In  an\'  way  he  commits  it,  if  harm  comes,"  said 
Marche-a-Terre,  in  a  voice  which  made  the  arched  roof 
tremble,  "  my  gun  won't  miss  him.  You  will  answer 
for  him  to  me,"  he  added,  turning  to  Pille-Miche ;  "for 
if  he  does  wrong  I  shall  take  it  out  on  the  thing  that 
,fills  3'our  goatskin." 

* '  But,  Monsieur  Marche-a-Terre,  with  all  due  re- 
16 


226  The  Chouans. 

spect,"  said  Galope-Chopine,  "  have  n't  you  sometimes 
taken  a  counterfeit  Chouan  for  a  real  one." 

''  My  friend,"  said  Marcbe-a-Terre  in  a  curt  tone, 
"  don't  let  that  happen  in  3'our  case,  or  I  '11  cut  you  in 
two  like  a  turnip.  As  to  the  emissaries  of  the  Gars, 
they  all  carry  his  glove,  but  since  that  affair  at  La 
Vivetiere  the  Grande  Garce  has  added  a  green  ribbon 
to  it." 

Pille-Miche  nudged  his  comrade  by  the  elbow  and 
showed  him  d'Orgemont,  who  was  pretending  to  be 
asleep  ;  but  Pille-Miche  and  Marche-a-Terre  both  knew 
b}'  experience  that  no  one  ever  slept  b}-  the  corner  of 
their  fire,  and  though  the  last  words  said  to  Galope- 
Chopine  were  almost  whispered,  they  must  have  been 
heard  by  the  victim,  and  the  four  Chouans  looked  at 
him  fixedly,  thinking  perhaps  that  fear  had  deprived 
him  of  his  senses. 

Suddenly,  at  a  slight  sign  from  Marche-a-Terre,  Pille- 
Miche  pulled  off"  d'Orgemont's  shoes  and  stockings, 
Mene-a-Bien  and  Galope-Chopine  seized  him  round  the 
bodj'  and  carried  him  to  the  fire.  Then  Marche-a-Terre 
took  one  of  the  thongs  that  tied  the  fagots  and  fastened 
the  miser's  feet  to  the  crane.  These  actions  and  the 
horrible  celerity  with  which  they  were  done  brought 
cries  from  the  victim,  which  became  heart-rending  when 
Pille-Miche  gathered  the  burning  sticks  under  his  legs. 

*'  My  friends,  my  good  friends,"  screamed  d'Orge- 
mont,  "  3^ou  hurt  me,  3^ou  kill  me!  I'm  a  Christian 
like  you." 

"You  lie  in  your  throat!"  replied  Marche-a-Terre. 
**  Your  brother  denied  God  ;  and  as  for  you,  you  bought 
the  abbey  of  Juvigny.  The  Abbe  Gudin  says  we  can 
roast  apostates  when  we  find  them." 


The   Chouaiis.  227 

"  But,  m}^  brothers  in  God,  I  don't  refuse  to  paj-." 

u  -y^g  gave  you  two  weeks,  and  it  is  now  two  months, 
and  Galope-Chopine  here  has  n't  received  the  money." 

"  Haven't  you  received  any  of  it,  Galope-Chopine?" 
asked  the  miser,  in  despair. 

"  None  of  it,  Monsieur  d'Orgemont,"  replied  Galope- 
Chopine,  frightened. 

The  cries,  which  had  sunk  into  groans,  continuous 
as  the  rattle  in  a  dying  throat,  now  began  again  with 
dreadful  violence.  Accustomed  to  such  scenes,  the 
four  Chouans  looked  at  d'Orgemont,  who  was  twisting 
and  howling,  so  coolly  that  the}'  seemed  like  travellers 
watching  before  an  inn  fire  till  the  roast  meat  was  done 
enough  to  eat. 

''I'm  dying,  I'm  dying!"  cried  the  victim,  "and 
3'ou  won't  get  ray  money." 

In  spite  of  these  agonizing  cries,  Pille-Miche  saw  that 
the  fire  did  not  yet  scorch  the  skin  ;  he  drew  the  sticks 
cleverly  together  so  as  to  make  a  shght  flame.  On  this 
d'Orgemont  called  out  in  a  quavering  voice:  "My 
friends,  unbind  me!  How  much  do  j'ou  want?  A 
hundred  crowns  —  a  thousand  crowns  —  ten  thousand 
crowns  —  a  hundred  thousand  crowns  —  I  offer  you  two 
hundred  thousand  crowns  !  " 

The  voice  became  so  lamentable  that  Mademoiselle 
de  Verneuil  forgot  her  own  danger  and  uttered  an 
exclamation. 

"Who  spoke?"  asked  Marche-^-Terre. 

The  Chouans  looked  about  them  with  terrified  e3"es. 
These  men,  so  brave  in  fight,  were  unable  to  face  a 
ghost.  Pille-Miche  alone  continued  to  listen  to  the 
promises  which  the  flames  were  now  extracting  from 
his  victim. 


228  The  Chouans. 

''Five  hundred  thousand  crowns  —  yes,  I'll  give 
them,"  cried  the  victim. 

"Well,  where  are  they?"  answered  Pille-Miche, 
tranquilly. 

"Under  the  first  apple-tree  —  Holy  Virgin!  at  the 
bottom  of  the  garden  to  the  left  —  you  are  brigands 
—  thieves  !  Ah  !  I  'm  dying  ^—  there  's  ten  thousand 
francs  —  " 

"Francs  I  we  don't  want  francs,"  said  Marche-a- 
Terre ;  ' '  those  RepubUcan  coins  have  pagan  figures 
which  ought  n't  to  pass." 

"  They  are  not  francs,  they  are  good  louis  d'or.  But 
oh !  undo  me,  unbind  me !  I  've  told  you  where  my 
life  is  —  my  money." 

The  four  Chouans  looked  at  each  other  as  if  thinking 
which  of  their  number  they  could  trust  suflSciently  to 
disinter  the  money. 

The  cannibal  cruelt}^  of  the  scene  so  horrified  Made- 
moiselle de  Verneuil  that  she  could  bear  it  no  longer. 
Though  doubtful  whether  the  role  of  ghost,  which  her 
pale  face  and  the  Chouan  superstitions  evidently 
assigned  to  her,  would  carry  her  safely  through  the 
danger,  she  called  out,  courageously,  "  Do  you  not  fear 
God's  anger?    Unbind  him,  brutes  !  " 

The  Chouans  raised  their  heads  and  saw  in  the  air 
above  them  two  e3'es  which  shone  like  stars,  and  they 
fled,  terrified.  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  sprang  into 
the  kitchen,  ran  to  d'Orgemont,  and  pulled  him  so  vio- 
lently from  the  crane  that  the  thong  broke.  Then  with 
the  blade  of  her  dagger  she  cut  the  cords  which  bound 
him.  When  the  miser  was  free  and  on  his  feet,  the  first 
expression  of  his  face  was  a  painful  but  sardonic  grin. 

"  Apple-tree !   yes,  go  to  the  apple-tree,  you  brig- 


The   Chouans.  229 

ands,"  he  said.    "  Ho,  ho  !  this  is  the  second  time  I  've 
fooled  them.     They  won't  get  a  third  chance  at  me." 

So  saying,  he  caught  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuirs 
hand,  drew  her  under  the  mantel-shelf  to  the  back  of 
the  hearth  in  a  way  to  avoid  disturbing  the  fire,  which 
covered  onl}^  a  small  part  of  it ;  then  he  touched  a 
spring;  the  iron  back  was  lifted,  and  when  their  ene- 
mies returned  to  the  kitchen  the  heavy  door  of  the  hid- 
ing-place had  already  fallen  noiselessl3\  Mademoiselle 
de  Verneuil  then  understood  the  carp-like  movements 
she  had  seen  the  miser  making. 

"  The  ghost  has  taken  the  Blue  with  him,"  cried  the 
voice  of  Marche-a-Terre. 

The  fright  of  the  Chouans  must  have  been  great,  for 
the  words  were  followed  b}'  a  stillness  so  profound  that 
d'Orgemont  and  his  companion  could  hear  them  mutter- 
ing to  themselves:  "Ave,  sancta  Anna  Auriaca  gratia 
plena,  Dominus  tecum,"  etc. 

"They  are  praying,  the  fools  !"  cried  d'Orgemont. 

"  Hush  I  are  not  you  afraid  they  will  discover  us?" 
said  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  checking  her  companion. 

The  old  man's  laugh  dissipated  her  fears. 

"  That  iron  back  is  set  in  a  wall  of  granite  two  feet 
thick,"  he  said.  "We  can  hear  them,  but  they  can't 
hear  us." 

Then  he  took  the  hand  of  his  preserver  and  placed  it 
near  a  crevice  through  which  a  current  of  fresh  air  was 
blowing.  She  then  perceived  that  the  opening  was 
made  in  the  shaft  of  the  chimne}^ 

"  Ai !  ai !  "  cried  d'Orgemont.  "The  devil!  how 
my  legs  smart ! " 

The  Chouans,  having  finished  their  prayer,  departed, 
and  the  old  miser  again  caught  the  hand  of  his  com- 


280  The   Chouans. 

panion  and  helped  her  to  climb  some  narrow  winding 
steps  cut  in  the  granite  wall.  When  they  had  mounted 
some  twent}'  of  these  steps  the  gleam  of  a  lamp  dimlj' 
lighted  their  heads.  The  miser  stopped,  turned  to  his 
companion,  examined  her  face  as  if  it  were  a  bank  note 
he  was  doubtful  about  cashing,  and  heaved  a  heavy  sigh. 

"  By  bringing  you  here,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's 
silence,  "  I  have  paid  you  in  full  for  the  service  you 
did  me  ;  I  don't  see  why  I  should  give  you  —  " 

"  Monsieur,  I  ask  nothing  of  you,"  she  said. 

These  words,  and  also,  perhaps,  the  disdainful  expres- 
sion on  the  beautiful  face,  reassured  the  old  man,  for 
he  answered,  not  without  a  sigh,  "  Ah  !  if  3'ou  take  it 
that  way,  I  have  gone  too  far  not  to  continue  on." 

He  politely  assisted  Marie  to  climb  a  few  more  steps 
rather  strangely  constructed,  and  half  willingly,  half 
reluctantly,  ushered  her  into  a  small  closet  about  four 
feet  square,  lighted  by  a  lamp  hanging  from  the  ceiling. 
It  was  easy  to  see  that  the  miser  had  made  preparations 
to  spend  more  than  one  day  in  this  retreat  if  the  events 
of  the  civil  war  compelled  him  to  hide  himself. 

"Don't  brush  against  that  wall,  you  might  whiten 
yourself,"  said  d'Orgemont  suddenly,  as  he  hurriedly 
put  his  hand  between  the  girl's  shawl  and  the  stones 
which  seemed  to  have  been  latel}-  whitewashed.  The 
old  man's  action  produced  quite  another  effect  from 
that  he  had  intended.  Marie  looked  about  her  and 
saw  in  one  corner  a  sort  of  projection,  the  shape  of 
which  forced  from  her  a  cry  of  terror,  for  she  fancied  it 
was  that  of  a  human  being  standing  erect  and  mortared 
into  the  wall.  D'Orgemont  made  a  violent  sign  to  her 
to  hold  her  tongue,  and  his  little  eyes  of  a  porcelain 
blue  showed  as  much  fear  as  those  of  his  companion. 


The   Chouans.  231 

"Fool!  do  you  think  I  murdered  him?  It  is  the 
body,  of  my  brother,"  and  the  old  man  gave  a  lugubrious 
sigh.  '^  He  was  the  first  sworn-in  priest ;  and  this  was 
the  only  asylum  where  he  was  safe  against  the  fury  of 
the  Chouans  and  the  other  priests.  He  was  my  elder 
brother,  and  he  alone  had  the  patience  to  teach  me  the 
decimal  calculus.  Oh  !  he  was  a  good  priest !  He  was 
economical  and  laid  by  money.  It  is  four  years  since 
he  died  ;  I  don't  know  what  was  the  matter  with  him  ;  • 
perhaps  it  was  that  priests  are  so  in  the  habit  of  kneel- 
ing down  to  pray  that  he  couldn't  get  accustomed  to 
standing  upright  here  as  I  do.  I  walled  him  up  there  ; 
they  'd  have  dug  him  up  elsewhere.  Some  day  perhaps 
I  can  put  him  in  holy  ground,  as  he  used  to  call  it,  — 
poor  man,  he  only  took  the  oath  out  of  fear." 

A  tear  rolled  from  the  hard  eyes  of  the  little  old 
man,  whose  rusty  wig  suddenly  seemed  less  hideous 
to  the  girl,  and  she  turned  her  eyes  respectfully  away 
from  his  distress.  But,  in  spite  of  these  tender  remi- 
niscences, d'Orgemont  kept  on  saying,  "  Don't  go  near 
the  wall,  you  might  —  " 

His  eyes  never  ceased  to  watch  hers,  hoping  thus  to 
prevent  her  from  examining  too  closely  the  walls  of 
the  closet,  where  the  close  air  was  scarcel}-  enough  to 
inflate  the  lungs.  Marie  succeeded,  however,  in  getting 
a  sufficiently  good  look  in  spite  of  her  Argus,  and 
she  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  strange  protuber- 
ances in  the  walls  were  neither  more  nor  less  than 
sacks  of  coin  which  the  miser  had  placed  there  and 
plastered  up. 

Old  d'Orgemont  was  now  in  a  state  of  almost  gro- 
tesque bewilderment.  The  pain  in  his  legs,  the  terror 
he  felt  at  seeing  a  human  being  in  the  midst  of  his 


232  The  Chouans, 

hoards,  could  be  read  in  every  wrinkle  of  his  face,  and 
yet  at  the  same  time  his  eyes  expressed,  with  unac- 
customed fire,  a  livel}^  emotion  excited  in  him  by  the 
presence  of  his  liberator,  whose  white  and  ros}'  cheek 
invited  kisses,  and  whose  velvety  black  e3'e  sent  waves 
of  blood  to  his  heart,  so  hot  that  he  was  much  in  doubt 
whether  they  were  signs  of  life  or  of  death. 

"  Are  you  married?  "  he  asked,  in  a  trembling  voice. 

"  No,"  she  said,  smiling. 

"  I  have  a  little  something,"  he  continued,  heaving  a 
sigh,  "  though  I  am  not  so  rich  as  people  think  for.  A 
young  girl  like  you  must  love  diamonds,  trinkets,  car- 
riages, money.  I  've  got  all  that  to  give  —  after  my 
death.     Hey  !  if  you  will  —  " 

The  old  man's  eyes  were  so  shrewd  and  betrayed 
such  calculation  in  this  ephemeral  love  that  Mademoi- 
selle de  Verneuil,  as  she  shook  her  head  in  sign  of 
refusal,  felt  that  his  desire  to  marry  her  was  solely 
to  bury  his  secret  in  another  himself. 

"Money!"  she  said,  with  a  look  of  scorn  which 
made  him  satisfied  and  angry  both  ;  "  mone^*  is  nothing 
to  me.  You  would  be  three  times  as  rich  as  you  are, 
if  you  had  all  the  gold  that  I  have  refused  — "  she 
stopped  suddenly. 

"  Don't  go  near  that  wall,  or  —  " 

"  But  I  hear  a  voice,"  she  said  ;  ''it  echoes  through 
that  wall,  —  a  voice  that  is  more  to  me  than  all  your 
riches." 

Before  the  miser  could  stop  her  Marie  had  laid  her 
hand  on  a  small  colored  engraving  of  Louis  XV.  on 
horseback ;  to  her  amazement  it  turned,  and  she  saw, 
in  a  room  beneath  her,  the  Marquis  de  Montauran,  who 
was  loading  a  musket.     The  opening,  hidden  by  a  little 


The   Chouans.  233 

panel  on  which  the  picture  was  gummed,  seemed  to 
forni  some  ornament  in  the  ceiling  of  the  adjoining 
chamber,  which,  no  doubt,  was  the  bedroom  of  the 
royalist  general.  D'  Orgemont  closed  the  opening  with 
much  precaution,  and  looked  at  the  girl  sternly. 

"Don't  say  a  word  if  3'ou  love  j'our  life.  You 
haven't  thrown  your  grappling-iron  on  a  worthless 
building.  Do  you  know  that  the  Marquis  de  Mon- 
tauran  is  worth  more  than  one  hundred  thousand 
francs  a  year  from  lands  which  have  not  yet  been 
confiscated?  And  I  read  in  the  Primidi  de  I'lUe-et- 
Vilaine  a  decree  of  the  Consuls  putting  an  end  to  con- 
fiscation. Ha !  ha !  you  '11  think  the  Gars  a  prettier 
fellow  than  ever,  won't  you?  Your  eyes  are  shining 
like  two  new  louis  d'or." 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil's  face  was,  indeed,  keenly 
excited  when  she  heard  that  well-known  voice  so  near 
her.  Since  she  had  been  standing  there,  erect,  in  tlie 
midst  as  it  were  of  a  silver  mine,  the  spring  of  her 
mind,  held  down  by  these  strange  events,  recovered 
itself.  She  seemed  to  have  formed  some  sinister  reso- 
lution and  to  perceive  a  means  of  carrying  it  out. 

"There  is  no  return  from  such  contempt,"  she  was 
saying  to  herself;  "and  if  he  cannot  love  me,  I  will 
kill  him  —  no  other  woman  shall  have  him." 

"No,  abbe,  no!"  cried  the  3'oung  chief,  in  a  loud 
voice  which  was  heard  through  the  panel,  "  it  must 
be   so." 

"Monsieur  le  marquis,"  replied  the  Abbe  Gudin, 
haughtily;  "j'ou  will  scandalize  all  Brittany  if  you 
give  that  ball  at  Saint  James.  It  is  preaching,  not 
dancing,  which  will  rouse  our  villagers.  Take  guns, 
not  fiddles.'^ 


234  The  Chouans. 

"  Abbe,  you  have  sense  enough  to  know  that  it  is 
not  in  a  general  assembly  of  our  partisans  that  I  can 
learn  to  know  these  people,  or  judge  of  what  I  ma}*  be 
able  to  undertake  with  them.  A  supper  is  better  for 
examining  faces  than  all  the  spying  in  the  world,  of 
which,  by  the  bye,  I  have  a  horror;  they  can  be  made 
to  talk  with  glasses  in  their  hand.'' 

Marie  quivered,  as  she  listened,  and  conceived  the 
idea  of  going  to  the  ball  and  there  avenging  herself. 

"  Do  3'ou  take  me  for  an  idiot  with  your  sermon 
against  dancing?"  continued  Montauran.  "  Wouldn't 
you  yourself  dance  a  reel  if  it  would  restore  j'our 
order  under  its  new  name  of  Fathers  of  the  Faith? 
Don't  you  know  that  Bretons  come  away  from  the  mass 
and  go  to  dancing?  Are  you  aware  that  Messieurs 
Hyde  de  Neuville  and  d'Andigne  had  a  conference,  five 
days  agO;  with  the  First  Consul,  on  the  question  of 
restoring  his  Majesty  Louis  XVIII.?  Ah,  monsieur, 
the  princes  are  deceived  as  to  the  true  state  of  France. 
The  devotions  which  uphold  them  are  solely  those  of 
rank.  Abb6,  if  I  have  set  my  feet  in  blood,  at  least 
I  will  not  go  into  it  to  my  middle  without  full  knowledge 
of  what  I  do.  I  am  devoted  to  the  king,  but  not  to  four 
hot-heads,  not  to  a  man  crippled  with  debt  like  Rifoel, 
not  to  '  chauffeurs,'  not  to  —  " 

"  Say  frankly,  monsieur,  not  to  abb^s  who  force  con- 
tributions on  the  highwa}'  to  carr}'  on  the  war,"  retorted 
the  Abb6  Gudin. 

"Why  should  I  not  say  it?"  replied  the  marquis, 
sharply;  "and  I'll  say,  further,  that  the  great  and 
heroic  days  of  La  Vendue  are  over."' 

"Monsieur  le  marquis,  we  can  perform  miracles 
without   you." 


The   Chouans.  235 

"Yes,  like  that  of  Marie  Lambrequin,  whom  I  hear 
you  have  brought  to  life,"  said  the  marquis,  smiling. 
"Come,  come,  let  us  have  no  rancor,  abbe.  I  know 
that  you  run  all  risks  and  would  shoot  a  Blue  as  readily 
as  you  sa}^  an  oremus.  God  willing,  I  hope  to  make 
you  assist  with  a  mitre  on  your  head  at  the  king's 
coronation." 

This  last  remark  must  have  had  some  magic  power, 
for  the  click  of  a  musket  was  heard  as  the  abbe  ex- 
claimed, "  I  have  fifty  cartridges  in  my  pocket,  mon- 
sieur le  marquis,  and  m}'  life  is  the  king's." 

"  He  's  a  debtor  of  mine,"  whispered  the  usurer  to 
Marie.  "  I  don't  mean  the  five  or  six  hundred  crowns 
he  has  borrowed,  but  a  debt  of  blood  which  I  hope  to 
make  him  pay.  He  can  never  suffer  as  much  evil  as  I 
wish  him,  the  damned  Jesuit !  He  swore  the  death  of 
my  brother,  and  raised  the  country  against  him.  Why  ? 
Because  the  poor  man  was  afraid  of  the  new  laws." 
Then,  after  applying  his  ear  to  another  part  of  his 
hiding-place,  he  added,  "  They  are  all  decamping,  those 
brigands.  I  suppose  they  are  going  to  do  some  other 
miracle  elsewhere.  I  only  hope  the}'  won't  bid  me 
good- by  as  they  did  the  last  time,  by  setting  fire  to  my 
house." 

After  the  lapse  of  about  half  an  hour,  during  which 
time  the  usurer  and  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  looked 
at  each  other  as  if  they  were  studying  a  picture,  the 
coarse,  gruff  voice  of  Galope-Chopine  was  heard  saying, 
in  a  muffled  tone:  "There's  no  longer  any  danger, 
Monsieur  d'Orgemont.  But  this  time,  you  must  allow 
that  I  have  earned  my  thirty  crowns." 

"My  dear,"  said  the  miser  to  Marie,  ''swear  to 
shut  your  ej-es." 


236  The  Chouans. 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  placed  one  hand  over  her 
eyelids ;  but  for  greater  securit}-  d'Orgemont  blew  out 
the  lamp,  took  his  liberator  b}-  the  hand,  and  helped  her 
to  make  seven  or  eiglit  steps  along  a  difficult  passage. 
At  the  end  of  some  minutes  he  gently  removed  her 
hand,  and  she  found  herself  in  the  very  room  the  Mar- 
quis de  Montauran  had  just  quitted,  and  which  was,  in 
fact,  the  miser's  own  bedroom. 

"My  dear  girl,"  said  the  old  man,  ''3'ou  can  safely 
go  now.  Don't  look  about  30U  that  way.  I  dare  sa}^ 
you  have  no  money  with  you .  Here  are  ten  crowns ; 
the}'  are  a  little  shaved,  but  the}^  '11  pass.  When  you  leave 
the  garden  you  will  see  a  path  which  leads  straight  to 
the  town,  or,  as  they  say  now,  the  district.  But  the 
Ciiouans  will  be  at  Fougeres,  and  it  is  to  be  presumed 
that  you  can't  get  back  there  at  once.  You  may  want 
some  safe  place  to  hide  in.  Remember  what  I  say  to 
you,  but  don't  make  use  of  it  unless  in  some  great 
emergency.  You  will  see  on  the  road  which  leads  to 
Nid-aux-Crocs  through  the  Val  de  Gibarr}^  a  farm-house 
belonging  to  Cibot  —  otherwise  called  Galope-Chopine. 
Go  in,  and  say  to  his  wife :  '  Good-day,  Becaniere,* 
and  Barbette  will  hide  you.  If  Galope-Chopine  dis- 
covers you  he  will  either  take  3'ou  for  the  ghost,  if  it  is 
dark,  or  ten  crowns  will  master  him  if  it  is  light. 
Adieu,  our  account  is  squared.  But  if  3'ou  choose,''  he 
added,  waving  his  hand  about  him,  "•  all  this  is  yours." 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  gave  the  strange  old  man 
a  look  of  thanks,  and  succeeded  in  extracting  a  sigh 
from  him,  expressing  a  variety  of  emotions. 

"  You  will  of  course  return  me  mj^  ten  crowns  ;  and 
please  remark  that  I  ask  no  interest.  You  can  pay 
them  to  my  credit  with  Maitre   Patrat,  the  notaiy  at 


The   Chouans.  237 

Fougeres,  who  would  draw  our  marriage  contract  if  you 
consented  to  be  mine.     Adieu." 

"  Adieu,"  slie  said,  smiling  and  kissing  her  hand. 

"  If  you  ever  want  money,"  he  called  after  her,  "  I'll 
lend  it  to  you  at  five  per  cent ;  yes,  only  five  —  did  I 
say  five  ?  —  why,  she  's  gone  !  That  girl  looks  to  me 
like  a  good  one ;  nevertheless,  I  '11  change  the  secret 
opening  of  my  chimney." 

Then  he  took  a  twelve-pound  loaf  and  a  ham ,  and  re- 
turned to  his  hiding  placco 

As  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  walked  through  the 
country  she  seemed  to  breathe  a  new  life.  The  fresh- 
ness of  the  night  revived  her  after  the  fiery  experience 
of  the  last  few  hours.  She  tried  to  follow  the  path 
explained  to  her  by  d'Orgemont,  but  the  darkness  be- 
came so  dense  after  the  moon  had  gone  down  that  she 
was  forced  to  walk  haphazard,  blindly.  Presently  the 
fear  of  falling  down  some  precipice  seized  her  and  saved 
her  life,  for  she  stopped  suddenly,  fancying  the  ground 
would  disappear  before  her  if  she  made  another  step. 
A  cool  breeze  lifting  her  hair,  the  murniur  of  the  river, 
and  her  instinct  all  combined  to  warn  her  that  she  was 
probabl}'  on  the  verge  of  the  Saint-Sulpice  rocks.  She 
slipped  her  arm  round  a  tree  and  waited  for  the  dawn 
with  keen  anxiety,  for  she  heard  a  noise  of  arms  and 
horses  and  human  voices  ;  she  was  grateful  to  the  dark- 
ness which  saved  her  from  the  Chouans,  who  were  evi- 
dently, as  the  miser  had  said,  surrounding  Fougeres. 

Like  tires  lit  at  night  as  signals  of  liberty,  a  few 
gleams,  faintly  crimsoned,  began  to  show  upon  the 
summits,  while  the  bases  of  the  mountains  still  retained 
the  bluish  tints  which  contrasted  with  the  rosy  clouds 


238  The   Chouans. 

that  were  floating  in  the  valley.  Soon  a  ruby  disk  rose 
slowly  on  the  horizon  and  the  skies  greeted  it ;  the 
varied  landscape,  the  bell  tower  of  Saint- Leonard,  the 
rocks,  the  meadows  buried  in  sliadow;  all  insensibly  re- 
appeared, and  the  trees  on  the  summits  were  defined 
against  the  skies  in  the  rising  glow.  The  sun  freed 
itself  with  a  graceful  spring  from  the  ribbons  of  flame 
and  ochre  and  sapphire.  Its  vivid  light  took  level  lines 
from  hill  to  hill  and  flowed  into  the  vales.  The  dusk 
dispersed,  day  mastered  Nature.  A  sharp  breeze 
crisped  the  air,  the  birds  sang,  life  wakened  every- 
where. But  the  girl  had  hardly  time  to  cast  her  eyes 
over  the  whole  of  this  wondrous  landscape  before,  by 
a  phenomenon  not  infrequent  in  these  cool  regions,  the 
mists  spread  themselves  in  sheets,  filled  the  vallevs, 
and  rose  to  the  tops  of  the  mountains,  burying  the  great 
valley  beneath  a  mantle  of  snow.  Mademoiselle  de 
Verneuil  fancied  for  a  moment  she  saw  a  7ner  de  glace, 
like  those  of  the  Alps,  Then  the  vaporous  atmosphere 
rolled  like  the  waves  of  ocean,  lifted  impenetrable  bil- 
lows which  softly  swayed,  undulated,  and  were  violently- 
whirled,  catching  from  the  sun's  rays  a  vivid  rosy  tint, 
and  showing  here  and  there  in  their  depths  the  trans- 
parencies of  a  lake  of  molten  silver.  Suddenly  the 
north  wind  swept  this  phantasmagoric  scene  and  scat- 
tered the  mists  which  laid  a  dew  full  of  oxygen  on  the 
meadows. 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  was  now  able  to  distinguish 
a  dark  mass  of  men  on  the  rocks  of  Foug^res.  Seven 
or  eight  hundred  Chouans  were  running  like  ants 
through  the  suburb  of  Saint-Sulpice.  The  sleeping 
town  would  certainly  have  been  overpowered  in  spite  of 
its  fortifications  and  its  old  gray  towers,  if  Hulot  had 


The  Chouans.  239 

not  been  alert.  A  batteiy,  concealed  on  a  height  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  basin  formed  by  the  ramparts,  replied 
to  the  first  fire  of  the  Chonans  by  taking  them  diago- 
nally on  the  road  to  the  castle.  The  balls  swept  the 
road.  Then  a  company  of  Blues  made  a  sortie  from 
the  Saint-Sulpice  gate,  profited  by  the  surprise  of  the 
royalists  to  form  in  line  upon  the  high-road,  and  poured 
a  murderous  fire  upon  them.  The  Chouans  made  no 
attempt  to  resist,  seeing  that  the  ramparts  of  the  castle 
were  covered  with  soldiers,  and  that  the  guns  of  the 
fortress  suflficiently  protected  the  Republican  advance. 

Meantime,  however,  other  Chouans,  masters  of  the 
little  valley  of  the  Nan^on,  had  swarmed  up  the  rocks 
and  reached  the  Promenade,  which  was  soon  covered 
with  goatskins,  giving  it  to  Marie's  eyes  the  appear- 
ance of  a  thatched  roof,  brown  with  age.  At  the  same 
moment  loud  reports  were  heard  from  the  part  of  the 
town  which  overlooks  the  valley  of  Couesnon.  Evi- 
dently, Fougeres  was  attacked  on  all  sides  and  com- 
pletely surrounded.  Flames  rising  on  the  western  side 
of  the  rock  showed  that  the  Chouans  were  setting  fire 
to  the  suburbs  ;  but  these  soon  ceased,  and  a  column  of 
black  smoke  which  succeeded  them  showed  that  the  fire 
was  extinguished.  Brown  and  white  clouds  again  hid 
the  scene  from  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  but  they  were 
clouds  of  smoke  from  the  fire  and  powder,  which  the 
wind  dispersed.  The  Republican  commander,  as  soon 
as  he  saw  his  first  orders  admirably  exeented,  changed 
the  direction  of  his  battery  so  as  to  sweep,  successively, 
the  valley  of  the  Nanqon,  the  Queen's  Staircase,  and 
the  base  of  the  rock  of  Fougeres.  Two  guns  posted 
at  the  gate  of  Saint-Leonard  scattered  the  ant-hill  of 
Chouans  who  had  seized  that  position,  and  the  national 


240  The   Chouans, 

guard  of  the  town,  rushing  in  haste  to  the  square  before 
the  Church,  succeeded  in  dislodging  the  last  enemy. 
The  fight  lasted  only  half  an  hour,  and  cost  the  Blues 
a  hundred  men.  The  Chouans,  beaten  on  all  sides, 
retreated  under  orders  from  the  Gars,  whose  bold 
attempt  failed  (although  he  did  not  know  this)  in  con- 
sequence of  the  massacre  at  La  Vivetiere,  which  had 
brought  Hulot  secretly  and  in  all  haste  to  Fougeres. 
The  artillery  had  arrived  only  that  evening,  and  the 
news  had  not  reached  Montauran  ;  otherwise,  he  would 
certainly  have  abandoned  an  enterprise  which,  if  it 
failed,  could  onl}^  have  bad  results.  As  soon  as  he 
heard  the  guns  the  marquis  knew  it  would  be  madness 
to  continue,  out  of  mere  pride,  a  surprise  which  had 
missed  fire.  Therefore,  not  to  lose  men  uselessly,  he 
sent  at  once  to  all  points  of  the  attack,  ordering  an  im- 
mediate retreat.  The  commandant,  seeing  his  adver- 
sary on  the  rocks  of  Saint-Sulpice  surrounded  by  a 
council  of  men,  endeavored  to  pour  a  volley  upon  him  ; 
but  the  spot  was  clever!}^  selected,  and  the  young  leader 
was  out  of  danger  in  a  moment.  Hulot  now  changed 
parts  with  his  opponent  and  became  the  aggressor.  At 
the  first  sign  of  the  Gars'  intention,  the  company  sta- 
tioned under  the  walls  of  the  castle  were  ordered  to  cut 
off  the  Chouans'  retreat  by  seizing  the  upper  outlet  of 
the  valley  of  the  NanQon. 

Notwithstanding  her  desire  for  revenge,  Mademoiselle 
de  Verneuil's  sympathies  were  with  the  men  commanded 
by  her  lover,  and  she  turned  hastily  to  see  if  the  other 
end  of  the  valley  were  clear  for  them ;  but  the  Blues, 
conquerors  no  doubt  on  the  opposite  side  of  Fou- 
geres, were  returning  from  the  valley  of  Couesnon  and 
taking  possession  of  the  Nid-aux-Crocs  and  that  portion 


The   Chouans.  241 

of  the  Saint- Sulpice  rocks  which  overhang  the  lower 
end  of  the  valley  of  the  Nan9on.  The  Chouans,  thus 
hemmed  in  to  the  narrow  fields  of  the  gorge,  seemed  in 
danger  of  perishing  to  the  last  man,  so  cleverly  and 
sagaciousU'  were  the  commandant's  measures  taken. 
But  Hulot's  cannon  were  powerless  at  these  two  points  ; 
and  here,  the  town  of  Fougeres  being  quite  safe,  began 
one  of  those  desperate  struggles  which  denoted  the 
character  of  Chouan  warfare. 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  now  comprehended  the 
presence  of  the  masses  of  men  she  had  seen  as  she  left 
the  town,  the  meeting  of  the  leaders  at  d'Orgemont's 
house,  and  all  the  other  events  of  the  night,  wondering 
how  she  herself  had  escaped  so  many  dangers.  The 
attack,  prompted  by  desperation,  interested  her  so 
keenly  that  she  stood  motionless,  watching  the  living 
pictures  as  they  presented  themselves  to  her  sight. 
Presently  the  struggle  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain  had 
a  deeper  interest  for  her.  Seeing  the  Blues  almost 
masters  of  the  Chouans,  the  marquis  and  his  friends 
rushed  into  the  valley  of  the  NauQon  to  support  their 
men.  The  rocks  were  now  covered  with  straggling 
groups  of  furious  combatants  deciding  the  question  of 
life  or  death  on  a  ground  and  with  weapons  that  were 
more  favorable  to  the  Goatskins.  Slowly  this  moving 
arena  widened.  The  Chouans,  recovering  themselves, 
gained  the  rocks,  thanks  to  the  shrubs  and  bushes 
which  grew  here  and  there  among  them.  For  a  moment 
Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  felt  alarmed  as  she  saw, 
rather  late,  her  enemies  swarming  over  the  summit  and 
defending  the  dangerous  paths  by  which  alone  she  could 
descend.  Every  issue  on  the  mountain  was  occupied 
by  one  or  other  of  the  two  parties  ;  afraid  of  encoun- 

16 


242  The   Chouans. 

tering  them  she  left  the  tree  behind  which  she  had  been 
sheltering,  and  began  to  run  in  the  direction  of  the  farm 
which  d'Orgemont  had  mentioned  to  her.  After  run- 
ning some  time  on  the  slope  of  Saint-Sulpice  which  over- 
looks the  valley  of  Couesnon  she  saw  a  cow-shed  in  the 
distance,  and  thought  it  must  belong  to  the  house  of 
Galope-Chopine,  who  had  doubtless  left  his  wife  at 
home  and  alone  during  the  fight.  Mademoiselle  de 
Verneuil  hoped  to  be  able  to  pass  a  few  hours  in  this 
retreat  until  it  was  possible  for  her  to  return  to  Fou- 
geres  without  danger.  According  to  all  appearance 
Hulot  was  to  triumph.  The  Chouans  were  retreating 
so  rapidly  that  she  heard  firing  all  about  her,  and  the 
fear  of  being  shot  made  her  hasten  to  the  cottage,  the 
chimney  of  which  was  her  landmark.  The  path  she 
was  following  ended  at  a  sort  of  shed  covered  with  a 
furze-roof,  supported  by  four  stout  trees  with  the  bark 
still  on  them.  A  mud  wall  formed  the  back  of  this 
shed,  under  which  were  a  cider-mill,  a  flail  to  thresh 
buckwheat,  and  several  agricultural  implements.  She 
stopped  before  one  of  the  posts,  unwilling  to  cross  the 
dirty  bog  which  formed  a  sort  of  courtyard  to  the 
house  which,  in  her  Parisian  ignorance,  she  had  taken 
for  a  stable. 

The  cabin,  protected  from  the  north  wind  by  an  emi- 
nence towering  above  the  roof,  which  rested  against  it, 
was  not  without  a  poetry  of  its  own ;  for  the  tender 
shoots  of  elms,  heather,  and  various  rock-flowers 
wreathed  it  with  garlands.  A  rustic  staircase,  con- 
structed between  the  shed  and  the  house,  enabled  the 
inhabitants  to  go  to  the  top  of  the  rock  and  breathe  ■ 
a  purer  air.  On  the  left,  the  eminence  sloped  abrupt!}* 
down,  giving  to  view  a  series  of  fields,  the  first  of  which 


The   Chouans.  243 

belonged  no  doubt  to  this  farm.  These  fields  were  like 
bowers,  separated  by  banks  which  were  planted  with 
trees.  The  road  which  led  to  them  was  barred  by  the 
trunk  of  an  old,  half-rotten  tree,  —  a  Breton  method  of 
inclosure  the  name  of  which  may  furnish,  further  on,  a 
digression  which  will  complete  the  characterization  of 
this  region.  Between  the  stairway  cut  in  the  schist 
rock  and  the  path  closed  by  this  old  tree,  in  front  of 
the  marsh  and  beneath  the  overhanging  rock,  several 
granite  blocks  roughlj'  hewn,  and  piled  one  upon  the 
other,  formed  the  four  corners  of  the  cottage  and  held  up 
the  planks,  cobblestones,  and  pitch  amalgam  of  which  the 
walls  were  made.  The  fact  that  one  half  of  the  roof 
was  covered  with  furze  instead  of  thatch,  and  the  other 
with  shingles  or  bits  of  board  cut  into  the  form  of  slates, 
showed  that  the  building  was  in  two  parts ;  one  half, 
with  a  broken  hurdle  for  a  door,  served  as  a  stable,  the 
other  half  was  the  dwelling  of  the  owner.  Though  this 
hut  owed  to  the  neigttborhood  of  the  town  a  few  im- 
provements which  were  wholly  absent  from  such  build- 
ings that  were  five  or  six  miles  further  off,  it  showed 
plainly  enough  the  instability  of  domestic  life  and 
habits  to  which  the  wars  and  customs  of  feudality 
had  reduced  the  serf;  even  to  this  day  many  of  the 
peasants  of  those  parts  call  a  seignorial  chateau,  "  The 
Dwelling." 

While  examining  the  place,  with  an  astonishment  we 
can  readily  conceive.  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  noticed 
here  and  there  in  the  filth  of  the  courtyard  a  few  bits 
of  granite  so  placed  as  to  form  stepping-stones  to  the 
house.  Hearing  the  sound  of  musketry  that  was  evi- 
denth"  coming  nearer,  she  jumped  from  stone  to  stone, 
as  if  crossing  a  rivulet,  to  ask  shelter.     The  house  was 


244  The   Chouans. 

closed  by  a  door  opening  in  two  parts  ;  the  lower  one 
of  wood,  heavy  and  massive,  the  upper  one  a  shutter 
which  served  as  a  window.  In  many  of  the  smaller 
towns  of  France  the  shops  have  the  same  type  of  door 
though  far  more  decorated,  the  lower  half  possessing  a 
call-bell.  The  door  in  qnestion  opened  with  a  wooden 
latch  worthy  of  the  golden  age,  and  the  upper  part  was 
never  closed  except  at  night,  for  it  was  the  only 
opening  through  which  daylight  could  enter  the  room. 
There  was,  to  be  sure,  a  clumsy  window,  but  the  glass 
was  thick  like  the  bottom  of  a  bottle,  and  the  lead 
which  held  the  panes  in  place  took  so  much  room  that 
the  opening  seemed  intended  to  intercept  the  light 
rather  than  admit  it.  As  soon  as  Mademoiselle  de 
Verneuil  had  turned  the  creaking  hinges  of  the  lower 
door  she  smelt  an  intolerable  ammoniacal  odor,  and 
saw  that  the  beasts  in  the  stable  had  kicked  through 
the  inner  partition  which  separated  the  stable  from  the 
dwelling.  The  interior  of  the  farmhouse,  for  such  it 
was,  did  not  belie  its  exterior. 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  was  asking  herself  how  it 
was  possible  for  human  beings  to  live  in  such  habitual 
filth,  when  a  ragged  little  boy  about  eight  or  nine 
3'ears  old  suddenly  presented  his  fresh  and  rosy  face, 
with  a  pair  of  fat  cheeks,  lively  eyes,  ivory  teeth,  and 
a  mass  of  fair  hair,  which  fell  in  curls  upon  his  half- 
naked  shoulders.  His  limbs  were  vigorous,  and  his  at- 
titude had  the  charm  of  that  amazement  and  naive 
curiosity  which  widens  a  child's  eyes.  The  little  fellow 
was  a  picture  of  beauty. 

*' Where  is  3^our  mother?"  said  Marie,  in  a  gentle 
voice,  stooping  to  kiss  him  between  the  e3'es. 

After  receiving  her  kiss  the  child  slipped  awa}'  like 


The  Ohouans.  245 

an  eel,  and  disappeared  behind  a  muck-heap  which  was 
piled  at  the  top  of  a  mound  between  the  path  and  the 
house ;  for,  like  many  Breton  farmers  who  have  a  sys- 
tem of  agriculture  that  is  all  their  own,  Galope-Chopine 
put  his  manure  in  an  elevated  spot,  so  that  by  the  time 
it  was  wanted  for  use  the  rains  had  deprived  it  of  all  its 
virtue.  Alone  for  a  few  minutes,  Marie  had  time  to 
make  an  inventory.  The  room  in  which  she  waited  for 
Barbette  was  the  whole  house.  The  most  obvious  and 
sumptuous  object  was  a  vast  fireplace  with  a  mantle- 
shelf  of  blue  granite.  The  etymology  of  that  word  was 
shown  by  a  strip  of  green  serge,  edged  with  a  pale-green 
ribbon,  cut  in  scallops,  which  covered  and  overhung  the 
whole  shelf,  on  which  stood  a  colored  plaster  cast  of  the 
Holy  Virgin.  On  the  pedestal  of  the  statuette  were  two 
lines  of  a  religious  poem  very  popular  in  Brittany :  — 

"  I  am  the  mother  of  God, 
Protectress  of  the  sod." 

Behind  the  Virgin  a  hideous  image,  daubed  with  red 
and  blue  under  pretence  of  painting,  represented  Saint- 
Labre.  A  green  serge  bed  of  the  shape  called  "  tomb," 
a  clumsy  cradle,  a  spinning-wheel,  common  chairs,  and 
a  carved  chest  on  which  lay  utensils,  were  about  the 
whole  of  Galope-Chopine's  domestic  possessions.  In 
front  of  the  window  stood  a  chestnut  table  flanked  b}" 
two  benches  of  the  same  wood,  to  which  the  sombre 
light  coming  through  the  thick  panes  gave  the  tone  of 
mahogany.  An  immense  cask  of  cider,  under  the  bung 
of  which  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  noticed  a  pool  of 
yellow  mud,  which  had  decomposed  the  flooring,  al- 
though it  was  made  of  scraps  of  granite  conglomerated 
in  clay,  proved  that  the  master  of  the  house  had  a  right 


246  The   Chouans. 

to  his  Chouan  name,  and  that  the  pints  galloped  down 
either  his  own  throat  or  that  of  his  friends.  Two  enor- 
mous jugs  full  of  cider  stood  on  the  table.  Marie's  at- 
tention, caught  at  first  bj-  the  innumerable  spider's-webs 
which  hung  from  the  roof,  was  fixing  itself  on  these 
pitchers  when  the  noise  of  figliting,  growing  more  and 
more  distinct,  impelled  her  to  find  a  hiding-place,  with- 
out waiting  for  the  woman  of  the  house,  who,  however, 
appeared  at  that  moment. 

''Good-morning,  Becaniere,"  said  Marie,  restraining 
a  smile  at  the  appearance  of  a  person  who  bore  some 
resemblance  to  the  heads  which  architects  attach  to 
window-casings. 

"Ha!  you  come  from  d'Oi;gemont ? "  answered 
Barbette,    in   a   tone   that   was   far   from   cordial. 

''Yes,  where  can  you  hide  me?  for  the  Chouans  are 
close  by  —  " 

"  There,"  replied  Barbette,  as  much  amazed  at  the 
beauty  as  by  the  strange  apparel  of  a  being  she  could 
hardly  believe  to  be  of  her  own  sex,  —  "there,  in  the 
priest's  hiding-place." 

She  took  her  to  the  head  of  the  bed,  and  was  putting 
her  behind  it,  when  they  were  both  startled  by  the 
noise  of  a  man  springing  into  the  courtyard.  Barbette 
had  scarcely  time  to  drop  the  curtain  of  the  bed  and 
fold  it  about  the  girl  before  she  was  face  to  face  with 
a  fugitive  Chouan. 

''Where  can  I  hide,  old  woman?  I  am  the  Comte 
de  Bauvan,"  said  the  new-comer. 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  quivered  as  she  recognized 
the  voice  of  the  belated  guest,  whose  words,  still  a 
secret  to  her,  brought  about  the  catastrophe  of  La 
Vivetiere. 


The  Chouans.  247 

,''Alas!  monseigneiir,  don't  yon  see,  I  have  no 
place?  What  I'd  better  do  is  to  keep  outside  and 
watch  that  no  one  gets  in.  If  the  Blues  come,  I  '11  let 
you  know.  If  I  stay  here,  and  the}^  find  me  with  3'ou, 
they  '11  burn  my  house  down." 

Barbette  left  the  hut,  feeling  herself  incapable  of 
settling  tlie  interests  of  two  enemies  who,  in  virtue  of 
the  double  role  her  husband  was  playing,  had  an  equal 
right  to  her  hiding-place. 

"I've  only  two  shots  left,"  said  the  count,  in 
despair.  ' '  It  will  be  ver}"  unlucky  if  those  fellows 
turn  back  now  and  take  a  fancy  to  look  under  this 
bed." 

He  placed  his  gun  gently  against  the  headboard 
behind  wliich  Marie  was  standing  among  the  folds  of 
the  green  serge,  and  stooped  to  see  if  there  was  room 
for  him  under  the  bed.  He  would  infallibly  have  seen 
her  feet,  but  she,  rendered  desperate  by  her  danger, 
seized  his  gun,  jumped  quicklj'  into  the  room,  and 
threatened  him.  The  count  broke  into  a  peal  of  laugh- 
ter when  he  caught  sight  of  hdr,  for,  in  order  to  hide 
herself,  Marie  had  taken  off  her  broad-brimmed  Chouan 
hat,  and  her  hair  was  escaping,  in  heavy  curls,  from 
the  lace  scarf  which  she  had  worn  on  leaving  home. 

"  Don't  laugh,  monsieur  le  comte ;  you  are  my  pris- 
oner. If  you  make  the  least  movement,  3^ou  shall  know 
what  an  offended  woman  is  capable  of  doing." 

As  the  count  and  Marie  stood  looking  at  each  other 
with  differing  emotions,  confused  voices  were  heard 
without  among  the  rocks,  calling  out,  "Save  the 
Gars !   spread  out,  spread  out,  save  the  Gars !  " 

Barbette's  voice,  calling  to  her  bo}^,  was  heard  above 
the  tumult  with  very  different  sensations  by  the  two 


248  The  Chouans. 

enemies,  to  whom  Barbette  was  really  speaking  instead 
of  to  her  son. 

''Don't  you  see  the  Blues?"  she  cried,  sharpl3\ 
"  Come  here,  you  little  scamp,  or  I  shall  be  after 
you.     Do  you  want  to  be  shot?     Come,  hide,  quick  !  " 

While  these  things  took  place  rapidly  a  Blue  jumped 
into  the  marshy  courtj-ard. 

"  Beau-Pied  !  "  exclaimed  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil. 

Beau-Pied,  hearing  her  voice,  rushed  into  the  cottage, 
and  aimed  at  the  count. 

"  Aristocrat ! "  he  cried,  "  don't  stir,  or  I  '11  demolish 
you  in  a  wink,  like  the  Bastille." 

"Monsieur  Beau-Pied,"  said  Mademoiselle  de  Ver- 
neuil, in  a  persuasive  voice,  "3'ou  will  be  answerable 
to  me  for  this  prisoner.  Do  as  3^ou  like  with  him 
now,  but  3'ou  must  return  him  to  me  safe  and  sound 
at  Fougeres." 

"  Enough,  madame  !  " 

"  Is  the  road  to  Fougeres  clear?" 

"Yes,  it's  safe  enough — unless  the  Chouans  come 
to  life." 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  picked  up  the  count's  gun 
gajiy,  and  smiled  satiricall}'  as  she  said  to  her  prisoner, 
"  Adieu,  monsieur  le  comte,  au  revoir  !  " 

Then  she  darted  down  the  path,  having  replaced  the 
broad  hat  upon  her  head. 

"I  have  learned  too  late,"  said  the  count,  "not  to 
joke  about  the  virtue  of  a  woman  who  has  none." 

"Aristocrat!"  cried  Beau-Pied,  sternly,  "if  5'ou 
don't  want  me  to  send  you  to  3'our  ci-devant  paradise, 
you  will  not  say  a  word  against  that  beautiful  lad}'." 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  returned  to  Fougeres  by 
the  paths  which  connects   the    rocks  of  Saint-Sulpice 


The   Chouans,  249 

with  the  Nid-aux-Crocs.  When  she  reached  the  latter 
height  and  had  threaded  the  winding  way  cut  in  its 
rough  granite,  she  stopped  to  admire  the  pretty  vallej' 
of  the  Nan9on,  lately  so  turbulent  and  now  so  tranquil. 
Seen  from  that  point,  the  vale  was  like  a  street  of  ver- 
dure. Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  re-entered  the  town  by 
the  Porte  Saint-Leonard.  The  inhabitants,  still  uneas}^ 
about  the  fighting,  which,  judging  by  the  distant  firing, 
was  still  going  on,  were  waiting  the  return  of  the 
National  Guard,  to  judge  of  their  losses.  Seeing  the 
girl  in  her  strange  costume,  lier  hair  dishevelled,  a  gun 
in  her  hand,  her  shawl  and  gown  whitened  against  the 
walls,  soiled  with  mud  and  wet  with  dew,  the  curiosity  of 
the  people  was  keenly  excited,  —  all  the  more  because 
the  power,  beauty,  and  singularity'  of  this  young  Paris- 
ian had  been  the  subject  of  much  discussion. 

Francine,  full  of  dreadful  fears,  had  waited  for  her 
mistress  throughout  the  night,  and  when  she  saw  her 
she  began  to  speak ;  but  Marie,  with  a  kindly  gesture, 
silenced  her. 

"  I  am  not  dead,  my  child,"  she  said.  "Ah!  "  she 
added,  after  a  pause,  ''  I  wanted  emotions  when  I  left 
Paris,  and'I  have  had  them  !  " 

Francine  asked  if  she  should  get  her  some  food, 
observing  that  she  must  be  in  great  need  of  it. 

"No,  no;  a  bath,  a  bath!"  cried  Mademoiselle  de 
Verneuil.     "  I  must  dress  at  pnce." 

Francine  was  not  a  little  surprised  when  her  mistress 
required  her  to  unpack  the  most  elegant  of  the  dresses 
she  had  brought  with  her.  Having  bathed  and  break- 
fasted, Marie  made  her  toilet  with  all  the  minute  care 
which  a  woman  gives  to  that  important  act  when  she 
expects  to  meet  the  eyes  of  her  lover  in  a  ball-room. 


250  The  Chouans. 

Fraucine  could  not  explain  to  herself  the  mocking 
gayety  of  her  mistress.  It  was  not  the  joy  of  love,  —  a 
woman  never  mistakes  that ;  it  was  rather  an  expres- 
sion of  concentrated  maliciousness,  which  to  Francine's 
mind  boded  evil.  Marie  herself  drew  the  curtains  of 
the  window  from  which  the  glorious  panorama  could  be 
seen,  then  she  moved  the  sofa  to  the  chimney  corner, 
turning  it  so  that  the  light  would  fall  becomingly  on  her 
face ;  then  she  told  Francine  to  fetch  flowers,  that  the 
room  might  have  a  festive  air ;  and  when  the}^  came 
she  herself  directed  their  arrangement  in  a  picturesque 
manner.  Giving  a  last  glance  of  satisfaction  at  these 
various  preparations  she  sent  Francine  to  the  command- 
ant with  a  request  that  he  would  bring  her  prisoner  to 
her ;  then  she  lay  down  luxuriousl}-  on  a  sofa,  partly  to 
rest,  and  partly  to  throw  herself  into  an  attitude  of  grace- 
ful weakness,  the  power  of  which  is  irresistible  in  certain 
women.  A  soft  languor,  the  seductive  pose  of  her  feet 
just  seen  below  the  drapery  of  her  gown,  the  plastic 
ease  of  her  body,  the  curving  of  the  throat,  —  all,  even 
the  droop  of  her  slender  fingers  as  they  hung  from  the 
pillow  like  the  buds  of  a  bunch  of  jasmine,  combined 
with  her  eyes  to  produce  seduction.  She  bur/ied  certain 
perfumes  to  fill  the  air  with  those  subtle  emanations 
which  affect  men's  fibres  powerfully,  and  often  prepare 
the  way  for  conquests  which  women  seek  to  make  with- 
out seeming  to  desire  them.  Presently  the  heavy  step 
of  the  old  soldier  resounded  in  the  adjoining  room. 

"Well,  commandant,  where  is  my  captive?"  she 
said. 

"  I  have  just  ordered  a  picket  of  twelve  men  to  shoot 
him,  being  taken  with  arms  in  his  hand." 

"Why  have   you  disposed   of  my  prisoner?"   she 


The  Chouans.  251 

asked.  "Listen  to  me,  commandant;  surel}^  if  I  can 
trust  jour  face,  the  death  of  a  man  aftet'  a  fight  is  no 
particular  satisfaction  to  you.  Well,  then,  give  m}' 
Chouan  a  reprieve,  for  which  I  will  be  responsible,  and 
let  me  see  him.  I  assure  you  that  aristocrat  has  become 
essential  to  me,  and  he  can  be  made  to  further  the  suc- 
cess of  our  plans.  Besides,  to  shoot  a  mere  amateur  in 
Chouannerie  would  be  as  absurd  as  to  fire  on  a  balloon 
when  a  pinprick  would  disinflate  it.  For  heaven's  sake 
leave  cruelt}^  to  the  aristocracy.  Republicans  ought  to 
be  generous.  Would  n't  you  and  yours  have  forgiven  the 
victims  of  Quiberon?  Come,  send  your  twelve  men  to 
patrol  the  town,  and  dine  with  me  and  bring  the  pris- 
oner. There  is  only  an  hour  of  daylight  left,  and  don't 
you  see,"  she  added  smiling,  "  that  if  you  are  too  late, 
my  toilet  will  have  lost  its  effect?  " 
,  "But,  mademoiselle,"  said  the  commandant,  amazed. 

"Well,  what?  But  I  know  what  you  mean.  Don't 
be  anxious ;  the  count  shall  not  escape.  Sooner  or 
later  that  big  butterfly'  will  burn  himself  in  your  fire." 

The  commandant  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly, 
with  the  air  of  a  man  who  is  forced  to  obe3%  whether  he 
will  or  no,  the  commands  of  a  prettj'  woman ;  and  he 
returned  in  about  half  an  hour,  followed  by  the  Comte 
de  Bauvan. 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  feigned  surprise  and  seemed 
confused  that  the  count  should  see  her  in  such  a  negli- 
gent attitude  ;  then,  after  reading  in  his  eyes  that  her 
first  effect  was  produced,  she  rose  and  busied  herself 
about  her  guests  with  well-bred  courtesy.  There  was 
nothing  studied  or  forced  in  her  motions,  smiles,  be- 
havior, or  voice,  nothing  that. betrayed  premeditation 
or  purpose.     All  was  harmonious ;  no  part  was  over- 


252  The   Chouans. 


acted ;  an  observer  could  not  have  supposed  that  she 
affected  the  manners  of  a  society  in  which  she  had 
not  lived.  When  the  Royalist  and  the  Republican  were 
seated  she  looked  sternly  at  the  count.  He,  on  his  part, 
knew  women  sufficiently  well  to  feel  certain  that  the 
offence  he  had  committed  against  this  woman  was  equiv- 
alent to  a  sentence  of  death.  But  in  spite  of  this  con- 
viction, and  without  seeming  either  ga}-  or  gloomy,  he 
had  the  air  of  a  man  who  did  not  take  such  serious 
results  into  consideration  ;  in  fact,  he  really  thought  it 
ridiculous  to  fear  death  in  presence  of  a  prett}'  woman. 
Marie's  stern  manner  roused  ideas  in  his  mind. 

"  Who  knows,"  thought  he,  "  whether  a  count's 
coronet  would  n't  please  her  as  well  as  that  of  her  lost 
marquis  ?  Montauran  is  as  lean  as  a  nail,  while  I  —  " 
and  he  looked  himself  over  with  an  air  of  satisfaction. 
'*  At  any  rate  I  should  save  m}^  head." 

These  diplomatic  reflections  were  wasted.  The  passion 
the  count  proposed  to  feign  for  Mademoiselle  de  Ver- 
neuil  became  a  violent  caprice,  which  the  dangerous 
creature  did  her  best  to  heighten. 

"Monsieur  le  comte,"  she  said,  "3'ou  are  my  pris- 
oner, and  I  have  the  right  to  dispose  of  you.  Your 
execution  cannot  take  place  without  mj  consent,  and 
I  have  too  much  curiosity  to  let  them  shoot  jou  at 
present." 

"And  suppose  I  am  obstinate  enough  to  keep 
silence?"  he  replied  gayly. 

"With  an  honest  woman,  perhaps,  but  with  a  woman 
of  the  town,  no,  no,  monsieur  le  comte,  impossible !  " 
These  words,  full  of  bitter  sarcasm,  were  hissed,  as  Sully 
says,  in  speaking  of  the  Duchesse  de  Beaufort,  from  so 
sharp  a  beak  that  the  count,  amazed,  merely  looked  at 


The   Chouans.  253 

his  antagonist.  ''  But,"  she  continued,  with  a  scornful 
glance,  "not  to  contradict  you,  if  I  am  a  creature  of 
that  kind  I  will  act  like  one.  Here  is  your  gun,"  and 
she  offered  him  his  weapon  with  a  mocking  air. 

"  On  the  honor  of  a  gentleman,  mademoiselle  —  " 

"Ah!"  she  said,  interrupting  him,  "I  have  had 
enough  of  the  honor  of  gentlemen.  It  was  on  the  faith 
of  that  that  I  went  to  La  Vivetiere.  Your  leader  had 
sworn  to  me  that  I  and  my  escort  should  be  safe  there.'' 

"What  an  infamy!"  cried  Hulot,  contracting  his 
brows. 

"  The  fault  lies  with  monsieur  le  comte,''  said  Marie, 
addressing  Hulot.  "  I  have  no  doubt  the  Gars  meant 
to  keep  his  word,  but  this  gentleman  told  some  calumnj^ 
about  me  which  confirmed  those  that  Charette's  mistress 
had  already  invented  —  " 

"  Mademoiselle,"  said  the  count,  much  troubled, 
"  with  my  head  under  the  axe  I  would  swear  that  I 
said  nothing  but  the  truth." 

"In  saying  what?" 

"  That  3'ou  were  the  —  " 

"  Say  the  word,  mistress  of — " 

"The  Marquis  de  Lenoncourt,  the  present  duke,  a 
friend  of  mine,"  replied  the  count. 

"Now  I  can  let  you  go  to  execution,"  she  said, 
without  seeming  at  all  agitated  by  the  outspoken  reply 
of  the  count,  who  was  amazed  at  the  real  or  pretended 
indifference  with  which  she  heard  his  statement. 
"However,"  she  added,  laughing,  "you  have  not 
wronged  me  more  than  that  friend  of  whom  you  sup- 
pose me  to  have  been  the  —  Fie !  monsieur  le 
comte :  surely  you  used  to  visit  my  father,  the  Due 
de   Verneuil?     Yes?   well  then  — " 


254  The  Chouans. 

EvidentW  considering  Hulot  one  too  maay  for  the 
confidence  she  was  about  to  make,  Mademoiselle  de 
Verneuil  motioned  the  count  to  her  side,  and  said  a  few 
words  in  his  ear.  Monsieur  de  Bauvan  gave  a  low 
ejaculation  of  surprise  and  looked  with  bewilderment 
at  Marie,  who  completed  the  effect  of  her  words  b}' 
leaning  against  the  chimney  in  the  artless  and  innocent 
attitude  of  a  child. 

''Mademoiselle,"  cried  the  count,  "I  entreat  your 
forgiveness,  unworthy  as  T  am  of  it." 

"I  have  nothing  to  forgive,"  she  replied.  "You 
have  no  more  ground  for  repentance  than  you  had  for 
the  insolent  supposition  you  proclaimed  at  La  Vivetiere. 
But  this  is  a  matter  beyond  your  comprehension.  Onl}^, 
remember  this,  monsieur  le  comte,  the  daughter  of  the 
Due  de  Verneuil  has  too  generous  a  spirit  not  to  take  a 
lively  interest  in  your  fate." 

"Even  after  I  have  insulted  you?"  said  the  count, 
with  a  sort  of  regret. 

"  Some  are  placed  so  high  that  insult  cannot  touch 
them.     Monsieur  le  comte,  —  I  am  one  of  them." 

As  she  said  the  words,  the  girl  assumed  an  air  of 
pride  and  nobility  which  impressed  the  prisoner  and 
made  the  whole  of  this  strange  intrigue  much  less 
clear  to  Hulot  than  the  old  soldier  had  thought  it. 
He  twirled  his  moustache  and  looked  uneasily  at 
Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  who  made  him  a  sign,  as 
if  to  sa}'  she  was  still  carrying  out  her  plan. 

"Now,"  continued  Marie,  after  a  pause,  "let  us 
dismiss,  these  matters.  Francine,  my  dear,  bring 
lights." 

She  adroitly  led  the  conversation  to  the  times  which 
had  now,  within  a  few  short  years,  become  the  "  ancien 


The   Chouans.  255 

regime."  She  brought  back  that  period  to  the  count's 
mind  by  the  liveliness  of  her  remarks  and  sketches, 
and  gave  him  so  many  opportunities  to  display  his  wit, 
by  cleverly  throwing  repartees  in  his  way,  that  he  ended 
b}'  thinking  he  had  never  been  so  charming ;  and  that 
idea  having  rejuvenated  him,  he  endeavored  to  inspire 
this  seductive  j'oung  woman  with  his  own  good  opin- 
ion of  himself.  The  malicious  creature  practised,  in  re- 
turn, every  art  of  her  coquetry  upon  him,  all  the  more 
adroitly  because  it  was  mere  play  to  her.  Sometimes 
she  let  him  think  he  was  making  rapid  progress,  and 
then,  as  if  surprised  at  the  sentiment  she  was  feeling, 
she  showed  a  sudden  coolness  which  charmed  him,  and 
served  to  increase  imperceptibl}'  his  impromptu  passion. 
She  was  like  a  fisherman  who  lifts  his  line  from  time 
to  time  to  see  if  the  fish  is  biting.  The  poor  count 
allowed  himself  to  be  deceived  b}'  the  innocent  air  with 
which  she  accepted  two  or  three  neatly  turned  compli- 
ments. Emigration,  Brittany,  the  Republic,  and  the 
Chouans  were  far  indeed  from  his  thoughts.  Hulot  sat 
erect  and  silent  as  the  god  Thermes.  His  want  of 
education  made  him  quite  incapable  of  taking  part  in  a 
conversation  of  this  kind  ;  he  supposed  that  the  talking 
pair  were  verj'  witty,  but  his  efforts  at  comprehension 
were  limited  to  discovering  whether  they  were  plotting 
against  the  Republic  in  covert  language. 

"  Montauran,"  the  count  was  saying,  "has  birth  and 
breeding,  he  is  a  charming  fellow,  but  he  does  n't 
understand  gallantry.  He  is  too  young  to  have  seen 
Versailles.  His  education  is  deficient.  Instead  of  diplo- 
matically defaming,  he  strikes  a  blow.  He  may  be 
able  to  love  violently,  but  he  will  never  have  that  fine 
flower  of  breeding  in  his  gallantry  which  distinguished 


256  The   Ohouans. 

Lauzun,  Adhemar,  Coigny,  and  so  many  others  !  He 
has  n't  the  winning  art  of  sa3'ing  those  pretty  nothings 
to  women  which,  after  all,  they  like  better  than  bursts 
of  passion,  which  soon  weary  them.  Yes,  though  he 
has  undoubtedly  had  man}'  love-affairs,  he  has  neither 
the  grace  nor  the  ease  that  should  belong  to  them." 

"  I  have  noticed  that  myself,"  said  Marie. 

"Ah!  "  thought  the  count,  "there's  an  inflection  in 
her  voice,  and  a  look  in  her  eye  which  shows  me  plainl}* 
I  shall  soon  be  o/i  terms  with  her ;  and  faith !  to  get 
her,  I  '11  believe  all  she  wants  me  to." 

He  offered  her  his  hand,  for  dinner  was  now  an- 
nounced. Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  did  the  honors 
with  a  politeness  and  tact  which  could  only  have  been 
acquired  by  the  life  and  training  of  a  court. 

'^  Leave  us,"  she  whispered  to  Hulot  as  they  left  the 
table.  "  You  will  only  frighten  him  ;  whereas,  if  I  am 
alone  with  him  I  shall  soon  find  out  all  I  want  to  know  ; 
he  has  reached  the  point  where  a  man  tells  me  every- 
thing he  thinks,  and  sees  through  my  eyes  only." 

"But  afterwards?"  said  Hulot,  evidently  intending 
to  claim  the  prisoner. 

"Afterwards,  he  is  to  be  free  —  free  as  air,"  she 
replied. 

"  But  he  was  taken  with  arms  in  his  hand." 

"  No,"  she  said,  making  one  of  those  sophistical  jokes 
with  which  women  parry  unanswerable  arguments,  "  1 
had  disarmed  him.  Count,"  she  said,  turning  back  to 
him  as  Hulot  departed.  "I  have  just  obtained  your 
liberty,  but  —  nothing  for  nothing,"  she  added,  laugh- 
ing, with  her  head  on  one  side  as  if  to  interrogate  him. 

"Ask  all,  even  my  name  and  my  honor,"  he  cried, 
intoxicated.     "  I  lay  them  at  your  feet." 


The   Chouans.  257 

He  advanced  to  seize  her  hand,  trying  to  make  her 
take  his  passion  for  gratitude ;  but  Mademoiselle  de 
Verneuil  was  not  a  woman  to  be  thus  misled.  So,  smil- 
ing in  a  way  to  give  some  hope  to  this  new  lover,  she 
drew  back  a  few  steps  and  said:  "You  might  make 
me  regret  my  confidence." 

"  The  imagination  of  a  young  girl  is  more  rapid  than 
that  of  a  woman,"  he  answered,  laughing. 

"  A  3^oung  girl  has  more  to  lose  "than  a  woman." 

"True;  those  who  carry  a  treasure  ought  to  be 
distrustful." 

'^  Let  us  quit  such  conventional  language,"  she  said, 
"  and  talk  seriously.  You  are  to  give  a  ball  at  Saint- 
James.  I  hear  that  your  headquarters,  arsenals,  and 
base  of  suppHes  are  there.     When  is  the  ball  to  be  ?  " 

"  To-morrow  evening." 

"  You  will  not  be  surprised  if  a  slandered  woman 
desires,  with  a  woman's  obstinacy,  to  obtain  a  public 
reparation  for  the  insults  offered  to  her,  in  presence 
of  those  who  witnessed  them.  I  shall  go  to  your  ball. 
I  ask  you  to  give  me  your  protection  from  the  moment 
I  enter  the  room  until  I  leave  it.  I  ask  nothing  more 
than  a  promise,"  she  added,  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  his 
heart.  "  I  abhor  oaths  ;  they  are  too  like  precautions. 
Tell  me  only  that  you  engage  to  protect  my  person 
from  all  dangers,  criminal  or  shameful.  Promise  to 
repair  the  wrong  you  did  me,  by  openly  acknowledging 
that  I  am  the  daughter  of  the  Due  de  Verneuil ;  but  say 
nothing  of  the  trials  I  have  borne  in  being  illegitimate, 
—  this  will  pay  your  debt  to  me.  Ha  !  two  hours  at- 
tendance on  a  woman  in  a  ball-room  is  not  so  dear  a 
ransom  for  j^our  life,  is  it?     You  are  not  worth  a  ducat 


17 


258  The  Chouans. 

*' What  do  you  ask  for  the  gun?"  said  the  count, 
laughing. 

"  Oh  !  more  than  I  do  for  you." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Secrecy.  Believe  me,  my  dear  count,  a  woman  is 
never  fathomed  except  by  a  woman.  I  am  certain  that 
if  you  say  one  word  of  this,  I  shall  be  murdered  on  my 
way  to  that  ball.  Yesterday  I  had  warning  enough. 
Yes,  that  woman  is  quick  to  act.  Ah !  I  implore 
3'^ou,"  she  said,  "  contrive  that  no  harm  shall  come  to 
me  at  the  ball." 

"You  will  be  there  under  my  protection,"  said  the 
count,  proudly.  "  But,"  he  added,  with  a  doubtful  air, 
"  are  you  coming  for  the  sake  of  Montauran  ?  " 

"You  wish  to  know  more  than  I  know  mj'self,"  she 
answered,  laughing.  "Now  go,"  she  added,  after  a 
pause.  "  I  will  take  3'ou  to  the  gate  of  the  town  myself, 
for  this  seems  to  me  a  cannibal  warfare." 

"  Then  you  do  feel  some  interest  in  me?  "  exclaimed 
the  count.  ' '  Ah !  mademoiselle,  permit  me  to  hope 
that  3'ou  will  not  be  insensible  to  mj^  friendship  —  for 
that  sentiment  must  content  me,  must  it  not?"  he 
added  with  a  conceited  air. 

''Ah!  diviner!"  she  said,  putting  on  the  ga}^  ex- 
pression a  woman  assumes  when  she  makes  an  avowal 
which  compromises  neither  her  dignitj'  nor  her  secret 
sentiments. 

Then,  having  slipped  on  a  pelisse,  she  accompanied 
him  as  far  as  the  Nid-aux-Crocs.  When  they  reached 
the  end  of  the  path  she  said,  "  Monsieur,  be  absolutely 
silent  on  all  this  ;  even  to  the  marquis  ;  "  and  she  laid 
her  finger  on  both  lips. 

The  count,  emboldened  by  so  much  kindness,  took 


The  Chouans.  269 

her  hand ;  she  let  him  do  so  as  though  it  were  a  great 
favor,  and  he  kissed  it  tenderly. 

"Oh!  mademoiselle,"  he  cried,  on  knowing  himself 
be3^ond  all  danger,  "rely  on  me  for  life,  for  death. 
Though  I  owe  you  a  gratitude  equal  to  that  I  owe  m}^ 
mother,  it  will  be  very  difficult  to  restrain  my  feelings 
to  mere  respect." 

He  sprang  into  the  narrow  pathway.  After  watch- 
ing him  till  he  reached  the  rocks  of  Saint-Sulpice,  Marie 
nodded  her  head  in  sign  of  satisfaction,  saying  to  her- 
self in  a  low  voice :  "  That  fat  fellow  has  given  me 
more  than  his  life  for  his  life  !  I  can  make  him  my 
creature  at  a  very  little  cost !  Creature  or  creator, 
that 's  all  the  difference  there  is  between  one  man  and 
another  —  " 

She  did  not  finish  her  thought,  but  with  a  look  of  des- 
pair she  turned  and  re-entered  the  Porte  Saint-Leonard, 
where  Hulot  and  Corentin  were  awaiting  her. 

"  Two  more  days,"  she  cried,  "  and  then  — "  She 
stopped,  observing  that  they  were  not  alone —"  he 
shall  fall  under  your  guns,"  she  whispered  to  Hulot. 

The  commandant  recoiled  a  step  and  looked  with  a 
jeering  contempt,  impossible  to  render,  at  the  woman 
whose  features  and  expression  gave  no  sign  whatever 
of  relenting.  There  is  one  thing  remarkable  about 
women :  they  never  reason  about  their  blameworthy 
actions,  —  feeling  carries  them  off  their  feet ;  even  in 
their  dissimulation  there  is  an  element  of  sincerity  ;  and 
in  women  alone  crime  may  exist  without  baseness,  for 
it  often  happens  that  they  do  not  know  how  it  came 
about  that  they  committed  it. 

"I  am  going  to  Saint-James,  to  a  ball  the  Chouans 
give  to-morrow  night,  and  —  '^ 


260  The   Ohonans. 

''  But/'  said  Corentin,  interrupting  her,  "  that  is 
fifteen  miles  distant ;  had  1  not  better  accompany 
you?" 

"You  think  a  great  deal  too  much  of  something  I 
never  think  of  at  all,"  she  replied,  "  and  that  is  yourself" 

Marie's  contempt  for  Corentin  was  extremely  pleas- 
ing to  Hulot,  who  made  his  well-known  grimace  as 
she  turned  away  in  the  direction  of  her  own  house. 
Corentin  followed  her  with  his  eyes,  letting  his  face 
express  a  consciousness  of  the  fatal  power  he  knew 
he  could  exercise  over  the  charming  creature,  by  work- 
ing upon  the  passions  which  sooner  or  later,  he  believed, 
would  give  her  to  him. 

As  soon  as  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  reached  home 
she  began  to  deliberate  on  her  ball-dress.  Francine, 
accustomed  to  obe}^  without  understanding  her  mistress's 
motives,  opened  the  trunks,  and  suggested  a  Greek 
costume.  The  Republican  fashions  of  those  days  were 
all  Greek  in  stj^le.  Marie  chose  one  which  could  be 
put  in  a  box  that  was  easy  to  carry. 

"  Francine,  m}^  dear,  I  am  going  on  an  excursion  into 
the  country ;  do  you  want  to  go  with  me,  or  will  3'ou 
stay  behind  ?  " 

"  Stay  behind  !  "  exclaimed  Francine  ;  "  then  who 
would  dress  you  ?  " 

"Where  have  you  put  that  glove  I  gave  you  this 
morning  ?  " 

''  Here  it  is." 

"Sew  this  green  ribbon  to  it,  and,  above  all,  take 
plenty  of  mone}^"  Then  noticing  that  Francine  was 
taking  out  a  number  of  the  new  Republican  coins,  she 
cried  out,  "  Not  those ;  they  would  get  us  murdered- 
Send  Jeremie  to  Corentin  —  no,  stay,  the  wretch  would 


The   Chouans.  261 

follow  me  —  send  to  the  commandant ;  ask  him  from 
me  for  some  six-frane  crowns." 

With  the  feminine  sagacit}'  which  takes  in  the  small- 
est detail,  she  thought  of  everything.  While  Francine 
was  completing  the  arrangements  for  this  extraordinary 
trip,  Marie  practised  the  art  of  imitating  an  owl,  and 
so  far  succeeded  in  rivalling  Marche-a-Terre  that  the 
illusion  was  a  good  one.  At  midnight  she  left  Fou- 
geres  by  the  gate  of  Saint-Leonard,  took  the  little  path 
to  Nid-aux-Crocs,  and  started,  followed  by  Francine,  to 
cross  the  Val  de  Gibarry  with  a  firm  step,  under  the 
impulse  of  that  strong  will  which  gives  to  the  body  and 
its  bearing  such  an  expression  of  force.  To  leave  a 
ball-room  with  sufficient  care  to  avoid  a  cold  is  an  im- 
portant affair  to  the  health  of  a  woman ;  but  let  her 
have  a  passion  in  her  heart,  .and  her  body  becomes  ada- 
mant. Such  an  enterprise  as  Marie  had  now  under- 
taken would  have  floated  in  a  bold  man's  mind  for  a 
long  time  ;  but  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  had  no  sooner 
thought  of  it  than  its  dangers  became  to  her  attractions. 

''  You  are  starting  without  asking  God  to  bless 
you,"  said  Francine,  turning  to  look  at  the  tower  of 
Saint-Leonard. 

The  pious  Breton  stopped,  clasped  her  hands,  and 
said  an  "  Ave  "  to  Saint  Anne  of  Auray,  imploring  her 
to  bless  their  expedition ;  during  which  time  her  mis- 
tress waited  pensively,  looking  first  at  the  artless  atti- 
tude of  her  maid  who  was  praying  fervently,  and  then 
at  the  eff*ects  of  the  vaporous  moonlight  as  it  glided 
among  the  traceries  of  the  church  building,  giving  to 
the  granite  all  the  delicacy  of  filagree.  The  pair  soon 
reached  the  hut  of  Galope-Chopine.  Light  as  their 
steps  were  they  roused  one  of  those  huge  watch-dogs 


262  The   Chouans. 

on  whose  fidelity  the  Bretons  rely,  putting  no  fastening 
to  their  doors  but  a  simple  latch.  The  dog  ran  to  the 
strangers,  and  his  bark  became  so  threatening  that  thej^ 
were  forced  to  retreat  a  few  steps  and  call  for  help. 
But  no  one  came.  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  then 
gave  the  owl's  cry,  and  instantl}"  the  rust}^  hinges  of 
the  door  made  a  creaking  sound,  and  Galope-Chopine, 
who  had  risen  hastil}^,  put  out  his  head. 

"  I  wish  to  go  to  Saint-James,"  said  Marie,  showing 
the  Gars'  glove.  "  Monsieur  le  Comte  de  Bauvan  told  me 
that  you  would  take  me  there  and  protect  me  on  the  way. 
Therefore  be  good  enough  to  get  us  two  riding  donkeys, 
and  make  yourself  ready  to  go  with  us.  Time  is  pre- 
cious, for  if  we  do  not  get  to  Saint-James  before  to- 
morrow night  I  can  neither  see  the  ball  nor  the  Gars." 

Galope-Chopine,  completeh^  bewildered,  took  the 
glove  and  turned  it  over  and  over,  after  lighting  a 
pitch  candle  about  a  finger  thick  and  the  color  of  gin- 
gerbread. This  article  of  consumption,  imported  into 
Brittany  from  the  North,  was  only  one  more  proof  to 
the  eyes  in  this  strange  countrj^  of  the  utter  ignorance 
of  all  commercial  principles,  even  the  commonest. 
After  seeing  the  green  ribbon,  staring  at  Mademoiselle 
de  Verneuil,  scratching  his  ear,  and  drinking  a  beaker 
of  cider  (having  first  offered  a  glass  to  the  beautiful 
lady),  Galope-Chopine  left  her  seated  before  the  table 
and  went  to  fetch  the  required  donkeys. 

The  violet  gleam  cast  by  the  pitch  candle  was  not 
powerful  enough  to  counteract  the  fitful  moonlight, 
which  touched  the  darlc  floor  and  furniture  of  the 
smoke-blackened  cottage  with  luminous  points.  The 
little  boy  had  lifted  his  pretty  head  inquisitively,  and 
above  it  two  cows  were  poking  their  ros^-  muzzles  and 


The  Chonans.  263 

brilliant  eyes  through  the  holes  in  the  stable  wall.  The 
big  dog,  whose  countenance  was  by  no  means  the  least 
intelligent  of  the  family,  seemed  to  be  examining  the 
strangers  with  as  much  curiosity  as  the  little  boy.  A 
painter  would  have  stopped  to  admire  the  night  effects 
of  this  scene,  but  Marie,  not  wishing  to  enter  into  con- 
versation with  Barbette,  who  sat  up  in  bed  and  began 
to  show  signs  of  amazement  at  recognizing  her,  left  the 
hovel  to  escape  its  fetid  air  and  the  questions  of  its  mis- 
tress. She  ran  quickly  up  the  stone  staircase  behind 
the  cottage,  admiring  the  vast  details  of  the  landscape, 
the  aspect  of  which  underwent  as  many  changes  as 
spectators  made  steps  either  upward  to  the  summits  or 
downward  to  the  valleys.  The  moonlight  was  now  en- 
veloping like  a  luminous  mist  the  valley  of  Couesnon. 
Certainly  a  woman  whose  heart  was  burdened  with  a 
despised  love  would  be  sensitive  to  the  melanchol}' 
which  that  soft  brilliancy  inspires  in  the  soul,  by  the 
weird  appearances  it  gives  to  objects  and  the  colors 
with  which  it  tints  the  streams. 

The  silence  was  presentl}-  broken  by  the  braying  of  a 
donkey.  Marie  went  quickly  back  to  the  hut,  and  the 
party  started.  Galope-Chopine,  armed  with  a  double- 
barrelled  gun,  wore  a  long  goatskin,  which  gave  him 
something  the  look  of  Robinson  Crusoe.  His  blotched 
face,  seamed  with  wrinkles,  was  scarcely  visible  under 
the  broad-brimmed  hat  which  the  Breton  peasants  still 
retain  as  a  tradition  of  the  olden  time  ;  proud  to  have 
won,  after  their  servitude,  the  right  to  wear  the  former 
ornament  of  seignorial  heads.  This  nocturnal  caravan, 
protected  by  a  guide  whose  clothing,  attitudes,  and 
person  had  something  patriarchal  about  them,  bore  no 
little  resemblance  to  the  Flight  into  Egypt  as  we  see  it 


264  The  Chouans. 

represented  by  the  sombre  brush  of  Rembrandt.  Ga- 
lope-Chopine  carefullj'  avoided  the  main-road  and  guided 
the  two  women  through  the  labyrinth  of  by-ways  which 
intersect  Brittany. 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  then  understood  the  Chouan 
warfare.  In  threading  these  complicated  paths,  she 
could  better  appreciate  the  condition  of  a  country  which 
when  she  saw  it  from  an  elevation  had  seemed  to  her 
so  charming,  but  into  which  it  was  necessary  to  pene- 
trate before  the  dangers  and  inextricable  difficulties  of 
it  could  be  understood.  Round  each  field,  and  from 
time  immemorial,  the  peasants  have  piled  mud  walls, 
about  six  feet  high,  and  prismatic  in  shape ;  on  the  top 
of  which  grow  chestnuts,  oaks  and  beeches.  The  walls 
thus  planted  are  called  hedges  (Norman  hedges)  and 
the  long  branches  of  the  trees  sweeping  over  the  path- 
ways arch  them.  Sunken  between  these  walls  (made  of 
a  clay  soil)  the  paths  are  like  the  covered  wa3^s  of  a  for- 
tification, and  where  the  granite  rock,  which  in  these 
regions  comes  to  the  surface  of  the  ground,  does  not 
make  a  sort  of  rugged  natural  pavement,  they  become 
so  impracticable  that  the  smallest  vehicles  can  onl}'  be 
drawn  over  them  by  two  pairs  of  oxen  or  Breton  horses, 
which  are  small  but  usuall}'  vigorous.  These  bj'-ways 
are  so  swampy  that  foot-passengers  have  gradually  by 
long  usage  made  other  paths  beside  them  on  the  hedge- 
banks  which  are  called  "rotes;"  and  these  begin  and 
end  with  each  division  into  fields.  In  order  to  cross 
from  one  field  to  another  it  is  necessary  to  climb  the 
clay  banks  by  means  of  steps  which  are  often  very 
slippery  after  a  rain. 

Travellers  have  many  other  obstacles  to  encounter  in 
these  intricate  paths.     Thus  surrounded,  each  field  is 


The   Chouans.  265 

closed  by  what  is  called  in  the  West  an  echalier.  That 
is  a  trunk  or  stout  branch  of  a  tree,  one  end  of 
which,  being  pierced,  is  fitted  to  an  upright  post  which 
serves  as  a  pivot  on  which  it  turns.  One  end  of 
the  echalier  projects  far  enough  beyond  the  pivot  to 
hold  a  weight,  and  this  singular  rustic  gate,  the  post 
of  which  rests  in  a  hole  made  in  the  bank,  is  so 
easy  to  work  that  a  child  can  handle  it.  Sometimes 
the  peasants  economize  the  stone  which  forms  the 
weight  by  lengthening  the  trunk  or  branch  beyond  the 
pivot.  This  method  of  enclosure  varies  with  the  genius 
of  each  proprietor.  Sometimes  it  consists  of  a  single 
trunk  or  branch,  both  ends  of  which  are  imbedded  in 
the  bank.  In  other  places  it  looks  like  a  gate,  and  is 
made  of  several  slim  branches  placed  at  regular  dis- 
tances like  the  steps  of  a  ladder  lying  horizontall3% 
The  form  turns,  like  the  echalier^  on  a  pivot.  These 
"  hedges  "  and  echalier s  give  the  region  the  appearance 
of  a  huge  chess-board,  each  field  forming  a  square, 
perfectly  isolated  from  the  rest,  closed  like  a  fortress 
and  protected  by  ramparts.  The  gate,  which  is  very 
easy  to  defend,  is  a  dangerous  spot  for  assailants.  The 
Breton  peasant  thinks  he  improves  his  fallow  land  by 
encouraging  the  growth  of  gorse,  a  shrub  so  well  treated 
in  these  regions  that  it  soon  attains  the  height  of  a  man. 
This  delusion,  worthy  of  a  population  which  puts  its 
manure  on  the  highest  spot  in  the  courtyard,  has  cov- 
ered the  soil  to  a  proportion  of  one  fourth  with  masses 
of  gorse,  in  the  midst  of  which  a  thousand  men  might 
ambush.  Also  there  is  scarcely  a  field  without  a  num- 
ber of  old  apple-trees,  the  fruit  being  used  for  cider, 
which  kill  the  vegetation  wherever  their  branches  cover 
the  ground.    Now,  if  the  reader  will  reflect  on  the  small 


2m  The   Chouans. 

extent  of  open  ground  within  these  hedges  and  large 
trees  whose  hungry  roots  impoverish  the  soil,  he  will 
have  an  idea  of  the  cultivation  and  general  character 
of  the  region  through  which  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil 
was  now  passing. 

It  is  difficult  to  saj'  whether  the  object  of  these 
inclosures  is  to  avoid  all  disputes  of  possession,  or 
whether  the  custom  is  a  laz}'  one  of  keeping  the  cattle 
from  straying,  without  the  trouble  of  watching  them  ; 
at  any  rate  such  formidable  barriers  are  permanent 
obstacles,  which  make  these  regions  impenetrable  and 
ordinary  warfare  impossible.  There  lies  the  whole 
secret  of  the  Chouan  war.  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil 
saw  plainly  the  necessity  the  Republic  was  under  to 
strangle  the  disaffection  by  means  of  the  police  and  by 
negotiation,  rather  than  by  a  useless  employment  of 
military  force.  What  could  be  done,  in  fact,  with  a 
people  wise  enough  to  despise  the  possession  of  towns, 
and  hold  to  that  of  an  open  country  already  furnished 
with  indestructible  fortifications?  Surety,  nothing  ex- 
cept negotiate  ;  especially  as  the  whole  active  strength 
of  these  deluded  peasants  la}'  in  a  single  able  and  enter- 
prising leader.  She  admired  the  genius  of  the  minister 
who,  sitting  in  his  study,  had  been  able  to  grasp  the 
true  wa}'  of  procuring  peace.  She  thought  she  under- 
stood the  considerations  which  act  on  the  minds  of 
men  powerful  enough  to  take  a  bird's-eye  view  of  an 
empire  ;  men  whose  actions,  criminal  in  the  eyes  of  the 
masses,  are  the  outcome  of  a  vast  and  intelUgent 
thought.  There  is  in  these  terrible  souls  some  myste- 
rious blending  of  the  force  of  fate  and  that  of  destin}-, 
some  prescience  which  suddenty  elevates  them  above 
their  fellows ;    the    masses    seek   them   for  a  time   in 


The   Ohouans.  267 

their  own  ranks,  then  thej^  raise  their  eyes  and  see 
these  lordly  souls  above  them. 

Such  reflections  as  these  seemed  to  Mademoiselle  de 
Verneuil  to  justify  and  even  to  ennoble  her  thoughts  of 
vengeance  ;  this  travail  of  her  soul  and  its  expectations 
gave  her  vigor  enough  to  bear  the  unusual  fatigues  of 
this  strange  journey.  At  the  end  of  each  property 
Galope-Chopine  made  the  women  dismount  from  their 
donkeys  and  climb  the  obstructions ;  then,  mounting 
again,  they  made  their  way  through  the  boggy  paths 
which  already  felt  the  approach  of  winter.  The  combi- 
nation of  tall  trees,  sunken  paths,  and  inclosed  places, 
kept  the  soil  in  a  state  of  humidity  which  wrapped  the 
travellers  in  a  mantle  of  ice.  However,  after  much 
wearisome  fatigue,  they  managed  to  reach  the  woods  of 
Marignay  by  sunrise.  The  journey  then  became  less 
difficult,  and  led  by  a  broad  footway  through  the  forest. 
The  arch  formed  by  the  branches,  and  the  great  size  of 
the  trees  protected  the  travellers  from  the  weather,  and 
the  many  difficulties  of  the  first  half  of  their  way  did  not 
recur. 

They  had  hardly  gone  a  couple  of  miles  through  the 
woods  before  they  heard  a  confused  noise  of  distant 
voices  and  the  tinkling  of  a  bell,  the  silver}'  tones  of 
which  did  not  have  the  monotonous  sound  given  by  the 
movements  of  cattle.  Galope-Chopine  listened  with  great 
attention,  as  he  walked  along,  to  this  melody  ;  presently 
a  puff  of  wind  brought  several  chanted  words  to  liis  ear, 
which  seemed  to  affect  him  powerfullj',  for  he  suddenly 
turned  the  wearied  donkeys  into  a  by-path,  which  led 
away  from  Saint-James,  paying  no  attention  to  the 
strong  remonstrances  of  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil, 
whose   fears  were   increased  bv  the  darkness   of  the 


268  The   Chouans. 

forest  path  along  which  their  guide  now  led  them.  To 
right  and  left  were  enormous  blocks  of  granite,  laid  one 
upon  the  other,  of  whimsical  shape.  Across  them  huge 
roots  had  glided,  like  monstrous  serpents,  seeking  from 
afar  the  juicy  nourishment  enjoj'ed  by  a  few  beeches. 
The  two  sides  of  the  road  resembled  the  subterranean 
grottos  that  are  famous  for  stalactites.  Immense  fes- 
toons of  stone,  where  the  darkling  verdure  of  ivy  and 
holl}'  allied  itself  to  the  green-gray  patches  of  the 
moss  and  lichen,  hid  the  precipices  and  the  openings 
into  several  caves.  When  the  three  travellers  had  gone 
a  few  steps  through  a  vcr}^  narrow  path  a  most  surpris- 
ing spectacle  suddenh-  unfolded  itself  to  Mademoiselle 
de  Verneuirs  e3'es,  and  made  her  understand  the  obsti- 
nacy of  her  Chouan  guide. 

A  semi-circular  basin  of  granite  blocks  formed  an 
amphitheatre,  on  the  rough  tiers  of  which  rose  tall 
black  pines  and  yellowing  chestnuts,  one  above  the 
other,  like  a  vast  circus,  where  the  wintry  sun  shed  its 
pale  colors  rather  than  poured  its  light,  and  autumn  had 
spread  her  tawny  carpet  of  fallen  leaves.  About  the 
middle  of  this  hall,  which  seemed  to  have  had  the 
deluge  for  its  architect,  stood  three  enormous  Druid 
stones,  —  a  vast  altar,  on  which  was  raised  an  old 
church-banner.  About  a  hundred  men,  kneeling  with 
bared  heads,  were  praying  fervently  in  this  natural 
enclosure,  where  a  priest,  assisted  by  two  other  eccle- 
siastics, was  saying  mass.  The  poverty  of  the  sacer- 
dotal vestments,  the  feeble  voice  of  the  priest,  which 
echoed  like  a  murmur  through  the  open  space,  the 
praying  men  filled  with  conviction  and  united  by  one 
and  the  same  sentiment,  the  bare  cross,  the  wild  and 
barren  temple,  the  dawning  day,  gave  the  primitive 


The  Chouans.  269 

character  of  the  earlier  times  ol'  Christianity  to  the 
scene.  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  was  struck  with  ad- 
miration. This  mass  said  in  the  deptlis  of  the  woods, 
this  worship  driven  back  by  persecution  to  its  sources, 
the  poesy  of  ancient  times  revived  in  the  midst  of  this 
weird  and  romantic  nature,  these  armed  and  unarmed 
Chouans,  cruel  and  praying,  men  yet  children,  all  these 
things  resembled  nothing  that  she  had  ever  seen  or 
yet  imagined.  She  remembered  admiring  in  her  child- 
hood the  pomps  of  the  Roman  church  so  pleasing  to 
the  senses ;  but  she  knew  nothing  of  God  alone,  his 
cross  on  the  altar,  his  altar  the  earth.  In  place  of 
the  carved  foliage  which  wreaths  the  columns  of  a 
Gothic  cathedral,  the  autumnal  trees  upheld  the  sky ; 
instead  of  a  thousand  colors  thrown  through  stained 
glass  windows,  the  sun  could  barely  slide  its  ruddy  rays 
and  dull  reflections  on  altar,  priest,  and  people.  The 
men  present  were  a  fact,  a  reality' ,  and  not  a  system,  — 
it  was  a  prayer,  not  a  religion.  But  human  passions, 
the  momentary  repression  of  which  gave  harmony  to 
the  picture,  soon  reappeared  on  this  mysterious  scene 
and  gave  it  powerful  vitality. 

As  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  reached  the  spot  the 
reading  of  the  gospel  was  just  over.  She  recognized 
in  the  officiating  priest,  not  without  fear,  the  Abbe 
Gudin,  and  she  hastily  slipped  behind  a  granite  block, 
drawing  Francine  .after  her.  She  was,  however,  unable 
to  move  Galope-Chopine  from  the  place  he  had  chosen, 
and  from  which  he  intended  to  share  in  the  benefits  of 
the  ceremony  ;  but  she  noticed  the  nature  of  the  ground 
around  her,  and  hoped  to  be  able  to  evade  the  danger 
by  getting  away,  when  the  service  was  over,  before  the 
priests.     Through  a  large  fissure  of  the  rock  that  hid 


270  The  Ohouans. 

her,  she  saw  the  Abbe  Gudin  mounting  a  block  of 
granite  which  served  him  as  a  pulpit,  where  he  began 
his  sermon  with  the  words,  — 

"  In  nomine  Patris  et  Filii^  et  Spiritus  Sancti" 

All  present  made  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

"  M}^  dear  friends,"  continued  the  abbe,  "let  us 
pray  in  the  first  place  for  the  souls  of  the  dead,  — Jean 
Cochegrue,  Nicolas  Laferte,  Joseph  Brouet,  Frangois 
Parquoi,  Sulpice  Coupiau,  all  of  this  parish,  and  dead 
of  wounds  received  in  the  fight  on  Mont  Pelerine  and 
at  the  siege  of  Fougeres.     De  profuridis^''^  etc. 

The  psalm  was  recited,  according  to  custom,  by  the 
congregation  and  the  priests,  taking  verses  alternatel}' 
with  a  fervor  which  augured  well  for  the  success  of  the 
sermon.  When  it  was  over  the  abbe  continued,  in  a 
voice  which  became  gradually  louder  and  louder,  for  the 
former  Jesuit  was  not  unaware  that  vehemence  of  de- 
liver}' was  in  itself  a  powerful  argument  with  which  to 
persuade  his  semi-savage  hearers. 

"  These  defenders  of  our  God,  Christians,  have  set  you 
an  example  of  dut}',"  he  said.  "  Are  3'ou  not  ashamed 
of  what  will  be  said  of  you  in  paradise  ?  If  it  were  not 
for  these  blessed  ones,  who  have  just  been  received  with 
open  arms  by  all  the  saints,  our  Lord  might  have 
thought  that  your  parish  is  inhabited  by  Mahometans  ! 
—  Do  you  know,  men,  what  is  said  of  you  in  Brittan}- 
and  in  the  king's  presence?  What!  you  don't  know? 
Then  T  shall  tell  you.  They  say :  '  Behold,  the  Blues 
have  cast  down  altars,  and  killed  priests,  and  murdered 
the  king  and  queen  ;  they  mean  to  make  the  parish  folk 
of  Brittany  Blues  like  themselves,  and  send  them  to 
fight  in  foreign  lands,  away  from  their  churches,  where 
they  run  the  risk  of  dying  without  confession  and  going 


The   Chouans,  271 

eternally  to  hell ;  and  yet  the  gars  of  Marignay,  whose 
churches  they  have  burned,  stand  still  with  folded  arms  ! 
Oh !  oh !  this  RepubUc  of  damned  souls  has  sold  the 
property  of  God  and  that  of  the  nobles  at  auction  ;  it  has 
shared  the  proceeds  with  the  Blues  ;  it  has  decreed,  in  or- 
der to  gorge  itself  with  money  as  it  does  with  blood,  that 
a  crown  shall  be  only  worth  three  francs  instead  of  six  ; 
and  yet  the  gars  of  Marigna}'  have  n't  seized  their  weap- 
ons and  driven  the  Blues  from  Brittany !  Ha !  para- 
dise will  be  closed  to  them !  they  can  never  save  their 
souls !  '  That 's  what  they  say  of  you  in  the  king's 
presence  !  It  is  your  own  salvation,  Christians,  which 
is  at  stake.  Your  souls  are  to  be  saved  by  fighting  for 
religion  and  the  king.  Saint  Anne  of  Auray  herself  ap- 
peared to  me  yesterday  at  half-past  two  o'clock ;  and 
she  said  to  me  these  very  words  which  I  now  repeat 
to  you :  '  Are  you  a  priest  of  Marignay  ? '  '  Yes, 
madame,  ready  to  serve  3'ou.'  '  I  am  Saint  Anne  of 
Auray,  aunt  of  God,  after  the  manner  of  Brittany.  I 
have  come  to  bid  you  warn  the  people  of  Marignay  that 
they  must  not  hope  for  salvation  if  they  do  not  take 
arms.  You  are  to  refuse  them  absolution  for  their  sins 
unless  they  serve  God.  Bless  their  guns,  and  those 
who  gain  absolution  will  never  miss  the  Blues,  because 
their  guns  are  sanctified.'  She  disappeared,  leaving  an 
odor  of  incense  behind  her.  I  marked  the  spot.  It  is 
under  the  oak  of  the  Patte  d'Oie  ;  just  where  that  beau- 
tiful wooden  Virgin  was  placed  by  the  rector  of  Saint- 
James  ;  to  whom  the  crippled  mother  of  Pierre  Leroi 
(otherwise  called  Marche-a-Terre)  came  to  pra}^  and  was 
cured  of  all  her  pains,  because  of  her  son's  good  deeds. 
You  see  her  there  in  the  midst  of  you,  and  3'ou  know 
that  she  walks  without  assistance.     It  was  a  miracle  — 


272  The   Chouans. 

a  miracle  intended,  like  the  resurrection  of  Marie  Lam- 
brequin to  prove  to  3'ou  that  God  will  never  forsake  the 
Breton  cause  so  long  as  the  people  fight  for  his  servants 
and  for  the  king.  Therefore,  m}^  dear  brothers,  if  3^ou 
wish  to  save  your  souls  and  show  3'ourselves  defenders 
of  God  and  the  king,  j^ou  will  obej^  all  the  orders  of  the 
man  whom  God  has  sent  to  us,  and  whom  we  call  The 
Gars.  Then  indeed,  you  will  no  longer  be  Mahome- 
tans ;  3'Ou  will  rank  with  all  the  gars  of  Brittany  under 
the  flag  of  God.  You  can  take  from  the  pockets  of  the 
Blues  the  monej^  the}^  have  stolen  from  3^ou ;  for,  if  the 
fields  have  to  go -uncultivated  while  you  are  making- 
war,  God  and  the  king  will  deliver  to  you  the  spoils  of 
your  enemies.  Shall  it  be  said.  Christians,  that  the 
gars  of  Marignay  are  behind  the  gars  of  the  Morbihan, 
the  gars  of  Saint-Georges,  of  Vitre,  of  Antrain,  who 
are  all  faithful  to  God  and  the  king?  Will  you  let 
them  get  all  the  spoils?  Will  you  stand  like  here- 
tics, with  your  arms  folded,  when  other  Bretons  are 
saving  their  souls  and  saving  their  king?  'Forsake 
all,  and  follow  me,'  saj's  the  Gospel.  Have  we  not  for- 
saken our  tithes,  we  priests?  And  you,  I  say  to  you, 
forsake  all  for  this  holy  war  !  You  shall  be  like  the 
Maccabees.  All  will  be  forgiven  you.  You  will  find  the 
priests  and  curates  in  3'our  midst,  and  3'ou  will  conquer ! 
Pay  attention  to  these  words,  Christians,"  he  said,  as 
he  ended;  "  for  this  da3'  only  have  we  the  power  to 
bless  your  guns.  Those  who  do  not  take  advantage  of 
the  Saint's-  favor  will  not  find  her  merciful ;  she  will 
not  forgive  them  or  listen  to  them  as  she  did  in  the  last 
war." 

This  appeal,  enforced  by  the  power  of  a  loud  voice 
and  by  many  gestures,  the  vehemence  of  which  bathed 


The   Chouans.  273 

the  orator  in  perspiration,  produced,  apparentl}'.  very 
little  effect.  The  peasants  stood  motionless,  their  eyes 
on  the  speaker,  like  statues ;  but  Mademoiselle  de  Ver- 
neuil  presently  noticed  that  this  universal  attitude  was 
the  result  of  a  spell  cast  hy  the  abb6  on  the  crowd.  He 
had,  like  great  actors,  held  his  audience  as  one  man 
by  addressing  their  passions  and  self-interests.  He  had 
absolved  excesses  before  committal,  and  broken  the 
onh^  bonds  which  held  these  boorish  men  to  the  prac- 
tice of  religious  and  social  precepts.  He  had  prosti- 
tuted his  sacred  office  to  political  interests  ;  but  it  must 
be  said  that,  in  these  times  of  revolution,  every  man 
made  a  weapon  of  whatever  he  possessed  for  the  benefit 
of  his  party,  and  the  pacific  cross  of  Jesus  became  as 
much  an  instrument  of  war  as  the  peasant's  plough- 
share. 

Seeing  no  one  with  whom  to  advise,  Mademoiselle  de 
Verneuil  turned  to  look  for  Francine,  and  was  not  a 
little  astonished  to  see  that  she  shared  in  the  rapt  en- 
thusiasm, and  was  devoutly  saying  her  chaplet  over  some 
beads  which  Galope-Chopine  had  probably  given  her 
during  the  sermon. 

"Francine,"  she  said,  in  a  lo,w  voice,  "are  you  afraid 
of  being  a  Mahometan  ?  " 

"Oh!  mademoiselle,"  replied  the  girl,  "just  see 
Pierre's  mother  ;  she  is  walking  !  " 

Francine's  whole  attitude  showed  such  deep  convic- 
tion that  Marie  understood  at  once  the  secret  of  the 
homil}',  the  influence  of  the  clergy  over  the  rural  masses, 
and  the  tremendous  effect  of  the  scene  which  was  now 
beginning. 

The  peasants  advanced  one  by  one  and  knelt  down, 
presenting  their  guns  to  the  preacher,  who  laid  them 

18 


274  The   Chouans. 

upon  the  altar,  Galope-Chopine  offered  his  old  duck- 
shooter/  The  three  priests  sang  the  hymn  "  Veni, 
Creator,"  while  the  celebrant  wrapped  the  instruments 
of  death  in  bluish  clouds  of  incense,  waving  the  smoke 
into  shapes  that  appeared  to  interlace  one  another. 
When  the  breeze  had  dispersed  the  vapor  the  guns  were 
returned  in  due  order.  Each  man  received  his  own  on 
his  knees  from  the  hands  of  the  priests,  who  recited  a 
Latin  prayer  as  they  returned  them.  After  the  men 
had  regained  their  places,  the  profound  enthusiasm  of 
the  congregation,  mute  until  then,  broke  forth  and 
resounded  in  a  formidable  manner. 

^''  Domine  salviimfac  regem!''  was  the  prayer  which 
the  preacher  intoned  in  an  echoing  voice,  and  was  then 
sung  vehemently  b}^  the  people.  The  cr}'  had  some- 
thing savage  and  warlike  in  it.  The  two  notes  of  the 
word  regem,  readily  interpreted  b}'  the  peasants,  were 
taken  with  such  energy  that  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil's 
thoughts  reverted  almost  tenderly  to  the  exiled  Bour- 
bon famil}'.  These  recollections  awakened  those  of  her 
past  life.  Her  memory  revived  the  fetes  of  a  court  now 
dispersed,  in  which  she  had  once  a  share.  The  face  of 
the  marquis  entered  her  reverv.  With  the  natural  mo- 
bility of  a  woman's  mind  she  forgot  the  scene  before 
her  and  reverted  to  her  plans  of  vengeance,  which  might 
cost  her  her  life  or  come  to  nought  under  the  influence 
of  a  look.  Seeing  a  branch  of  holly  the  trivial  thought 
crossed  her  mind  that  in  this  decisive  moment,  when 
she  wished  to  appear  in  all  her  beaut}'  at  the  ball,  she 
had  no  decoration  for  her  hair :  and  she  gathered  a  tuft 
of  the  prickl}^  leaves  and  shining  berries  with  the  idea 
of  wearing  them. 

''  Ho  !  ho  !  m}'  gun  may  miss  fire  on  a  duck,  but  on  a 


The   Chouans,  275 

Blue,  never !  "  cried  Galope-Chopine,  nodding  his  head 
in  sign  of  satisfaction. 

Marie  examined  her  guide's  face  attentively,  and 
found  it  of  the  type  of  those  she  had  just  seen.  The 
old  Chouan  had  evidentlj'  no  more  ideas  than  a  child. 
A  naive  joy  wrinkled  his  cheeks  and  forehead  as  he 
looked  at  his  gun  ;  but  a  pious  conviction  cast  upon 
that  expression  of  his  joy  a  tinge  of  fanaticism,  which 
brought  into  his  face  for  an  instant  the  signs  of  the 
vices  of  civilization. 

Presentl}'  they  reached  a  village,  or  rather  a  collec- 
tion of  huts  like  that  of  Galope-Chopine,  where  the  rest 
of  the  congregation  arrived  before  Mademoiselle  de 
Verneuil  had  finished  the  milk  and  bread  and  butter 
which  formed  the  meal.  This  irregular  company  was 
led  by  the  abbe,  who  held  in  his  hand  a  rough  cross 
draped  with  a  flag,  followed  by  a  gars,  who  was  proudly 
carrying  the  parish  banner.  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil 
was  compelled  to  mingle  with  this  detachment,  which  was 
on  its  wa}',  like  herself,  to  Saint- James,  and  would 
naturally  protect  her  from  all  danger  as  soon  as 
Galope-Chopine  informed  them  that  the  Gars  glove 
was  in  her  possession,  provided  always  that  the  abbe 
did  not  see  her. 

Towards  sunset  the  three  travellers  arrived  safely  at 
Saint-James,  a  little  town  which  owes  its  name  to  the 
English,  by  whom  it  was  built  in  the  fourteenth  century, 
during  their  occupation  of  Brittany.  Before  entering  it 
Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  was  witness  of  a  strange 
scene  of  this  strange  war,  to  which,  however,  she  gave 
little  attention  ;  she  feared  to  be  recognized  by  some  of 
her  enemies,  and  this  dread  hastened  her  steps.  Five 
or  six  thousand  peasants  were  camping  in  a  field.    Their 


276  The   Chouans. 

clothing  was  not  in  any  degree  warlike ;  in  fact,  this 
tumultuous  assembh"  resembled  that  of  a  great  fair. 
Some  attention  was  needed  to  even  observe  that  these 
Bretons  were  armed,  for  their  goatskins  were  so  made 
as  to  hide  their  guns,  and  the  weapons  that  were  chiefly 
visible  were  the  scythes  with  which  some  of  the  men 
had  armed  themselves  while  awaiting  the  distribution  of 
muskets.  Some  were  eating  and  drinking,  others  were 
fighting  and  quarrelling  in  loud  tones,  but  the  greater 
part  were  sleeping  on  the  ground.  An  officer  in  a  red 
uniform  attracted  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil's  attention, 
and  she  supposed  him  to  belong  to  the  English  service. 
At  a  little  distance  two  other  officers  seemed  to  be  trj- 
ing  to  teach  a  few  Chouans,  more  intelligent  than  the 
rest,  to  handle  two  cannon,  which  apparentl}'  formed 
the  whole  artillery  of  the  royalist  army.  Shouts  hailed 
the  coming  of  the  gars  of  Marignay,  who  were  recognized 
by  their  banner.  Under  cover  of  the  tumult  which  the 
new-comers  and  the  priests  excited  in  the  camp,  Made- 
moiselle de  Verneuil  was  able  to  make  her  way  past  it 
and  into  the  town  without  danger.  She  stopped  at  a 
plain-looking  inn  not  far  from  the  building  where  the 
ball  was  to  be  given.  The  town  was  so  full  of  strangers 
that  she  could  only  obtain  one  miserable  room.  When 
she  was  safely  in  it  Galope-Chopine  brought  Francine 
the  box  which  contained  the  ball  dress,  and  having 
done  so  he  stood  stock-still  in  an  attitude  of  indescrib- 
able irresolution.  At  any  other  time  Mademoiselle  de 
Verneuil  would  have  been  much  amused  to  see  what  a 
Breton  peasant  can  be  like  when  he  leaves  his  native 
parish ;  but  now  she  broke  the  charm  by  opening  her 
purse  and  producing  four  crowns  of  six  francs  each, 
which  she  gave  him. 


The   Chouans,  277 

"  Take  it/'  she  said,  "and  if  you  wish  to  oblige  me, 
you  will  go  straight  back  to  Fougeres  without  entering 
the  camp  or  drinking  any  cider." 

The  Chouan,  amazed  at  her  liberality,  looked  first  at 
the  crowns  (which  he  had  taken)  and  then  at  Mademoi- 
selle de  Verneuil ;  but  she  made  him  a  sign  with  her 
hand  and  he  disappeared. 

"  How  could  you  send  him  away,  mademoiselle  ?  " 
said  Francine.  "  Don't  you  see  how  the  place  is  sur- 
rounded ?  we  shall  never  get  away !  and  who  will  pro- 
tect you  here  ? " 

"  You  have  a  protector  of  your  own,"'  said  Marie  ma- 
liciously, giving  in  an  undertone  Marche-a-Terre's  owl 
cry  which  she  was  constants  practising. 

Francine  colored,  and  smiled  rather  sadly  at  her 
mistress's  gayety. 

"  But  who  is  3^ours  ?  "  she  said. 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  plucked  out  her  dagger, 
and  showed  it  to  the  frightened  girl,  who  dropped  on  a 
chair  and  clasped  her  hands. 

"  What  have  you  come  here  for,  Marie  ? "  she  cried 
in  a  supplicating  voice  which  asked  no  answer. 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  was  busily  twisting  the 
branches  of  holly  which  she  had  gathered. 

''  I  don't  know  whether  this  holly  will  be  becoming," 
she  said ;  "  a  brilliant  skin  like  mine  may  possibly  bear 
a  dark  wreath  of  this  kind.  What  do  you  think, 
Francine?  " 

Several  remarks  of  the  same  kind  as  she  dressed  for 
the  ball  showed  the  absolute  self-possession  and  cool- 
ness of  this  strange  woman.  Whoever  had  listened  to 
her  then  would  have  found  it  hard  to  believe  in  the 
gravity  of  a  situation  in  which  she  was  risking  her  life. 


278  The  Chouans. 

An  India  muslin  gown,  rather  short  and  clinging  like 
damp  linen,  revealed  the  delicate  outlines  of  her  shape  ; 
over  this  she  wore  a  red  drapery,  numerous  folds  of 
which,  gradually  lengthening  as  they  fell  by  her  side, 
took  the  graceful  curves  of  a  Greek  peplum.  This  vo- 
luptuous garment  of  the  pagan  priestesses  lessened  the 
indecency  of  the  rest  of  the  attire  which  the  fashions  of 
the  time  suffered  women  to  wear.  To  soften  its  im- 
modesty still  further,  Marie  threw  a  gauze  scarf  over 
her  shoulders,  left  bare  and  far  too  low  by  the  red 
drapery.  She  wound  the  long  braids  of  her  hair  into 
the  flat  irregular  cone  above  the  nape  of  the  neck  which 
gives  such  grace  to  certain  antique  statues  by  an  artistic 
elongation  of  the  head,  while  a  few  stray  locks  escaping 
from  her  forehead  fell  in  shining  curls  beside  her  cheeks. 
With  a  form  and  head  thus  dressed,  she  presented  a 
perfect  likeness  of  the  noble  masterpieces  of  Greek 
sculpture.  She  smiled  as  she  looked  with  approval  at 
the  arrangement  of  her  hair,  which  brought  out  the 
beauties  of  her  face,  while  the  scarlet  berries  of  the 
holly  wreath  which  she  laid  upon  it  repeated  charmingly 
the  color  of  the  peplum.  As  she  twisted  and  turned  a 
few  leaves,  to  give  capricious  diversity  to  their  arrange- 
ment, she  examined  her  whole  costume  in  a  mirror  to 
judge  of  its  general  effect. 

''  I  am  horrible  to-night,"  she  said,  as  though  she 
were  surrounded  by  flatterers.  "  I  look  like  a  statue 
of  Liberty." 

She  placed  the  dagger  carefully  in  her  bosom  leaving 
the  rubies  in  the  hilt  exposed,  their  ruddy  reflections 
attracting  the  eye  to  the  hidden  beauties  of  her  shape. 
Francine  could  not  bring  herself  to  leave  her  mistress. 
When  Marie  was  ready  she  made  various  pretexts  to 


The   Chouans.  279 

follow  her.  She  must  help  her  to  take  off  her  mantle, 
and  the  overshoes  which  the  mud  and  muck  in  the 
streets  compelled  her  to  wear  (though  the  roads  had 
been  sanded  for  this  occasion) ;  also  the  gauze  veil 
which  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  had  thrown  over  her 
head  to  conceal  her  features  from  the  Chouans  who 
were  collecting  in  the  streets  to  watch  the  company. 
The  crowd  was  in  fact  so  great  that  the}^  were  forced 
to  make  their  way  through  two  hedges  of  Chouans. 
Francine  no  longer  strove  to  detain  her  mistress,  and 
after  giving  a  few  last  touches  to  a  costume  the  great- 
est charm  of  which  was  its  exquisite  freshness,  she 
stationed  herself  in  the  courtyard  that  she  might  not 
abandon  this  beloved  mistress  to  her  fate  without  being 
able  to  fly  to  her  succor ;  for  the  poor  girl  foresaw  only 
evil  in  these  events. 

A  strange  scene  was  taking  place  in  Montauran's 
chamber  as  Marie  was  on  her  wa}^  to  the  ball.  The 
young  marquis,  who  had  just  finished  dressing,  was 
putting  on  the  broad  red  ribbon  which  distinguished 
him  as  first  in  rank  of  the  assembly,  when  the  Abbe 
Gudin  entered  the  room  with  an  anxious  air. 

"Monsieur  le  marquis,  come  quickl}'',"  he  said. 
"You  alone  can  quell  a  tumult  which  has  broken  out, 
I  don't  know  why,  among  the  leaders.  They  talk  of 
abandoning  the  king's  cause.  I  think  that  devil  of  a 
Rifoel  is  at  the  bottom  ofnt.  Such  quarrels  are  always 
caused  by  some  mere  nonsense.  Madame  du  Gua 
reproached  him,  so  I  hear,  for  coming  to  the  ball 
ill-dressed." 

''  That  woman  must  be  crazy,"  cried  the  marquis,  "  to 
try  to  —  " 

"Rifoel  retorted,"  continued  the  a,bbe,  interrupting 


280  The   Chouans. 

his  chief,  "  that  if  you  had  given  him  the  money  prom- 
ised him  in  the  king's  name  —  " 

''Enough,  enough;  I  understand  it  all  now.  This 
scene  has  all  been  arranged,  and  3'ou  are  put  forward 
as  ambassador  —  '* 

"  I,  monsieur  le  marquis ! "  said  the  abbe,  again  in- 
terrupting him.  "I  am  supporting  you  vigorouslj^  and 
you  will,  I  hope,  do  me  the  justice  to  believe  that  the 
restoration  of  our  altars  in  France  and  that  of  the  king 
upon  the  throne  of  his  fathers  are  far  more  powerful 
incentives  to  my  humble  labors  than  the  bishopric  of 
Rennes  which  you  —  " 

The  abbe  dared  say  no  more,  for  the  marquis  smiled 
bitterly  at  his  last  words.  However,  the  young  chief 
instantly  repressed  all  expression  of  feeling,  his  brow 
grew  stern,  and  he  followed  the  Abbe  Gudin  into  a  hall 
where  the  worst  of  the  clamor  was  echoing. 

"  I  recognize  no  authority  here,"  Rifoel  was  sa^'ing, 
casting  angr}'  looks  at  all  about  him  and  la3'ing  his 
hand  on  the  hilt  of  his  sabre. 

"Do  you  recognize  that  of  common-sense?"  asked 
the  marquis,  coldly. 

The  young  Chevalier  de  Vissard,  better  known  under 
his  patron3'mic  of  Rifoel,  was  silent  before  the  general 
of  the  Catholic  armies. 

"  What  ir'atr  this  about,  gentlemen?"  asked  the 
marquis,  examining  the  faces  round  him. 

"  This,  monsieur  le  marquis,"  said  a  famous  smuggler, 
with  the  awkwardness  of  a  man  of  the  people  who  long 
remains  under  the  yoke  of  respect  to  a  great  lord, 
though  he  admits  no  barriers  after  he  has  once  jumped 
them,  and  regards  the  aristocrat  as  an  equal  only, 
"  this,'^  he  said,  "  and  3^ou  have  come  in  the  nick  of 


The  Chouans.  281 

time  to  hear  it.  I  am  no  speaker  of  gilded  phrases,  and  I 
shall  say  things  plainly.  I  commanded  five  hundred  men 
during  the  late  war.  Since  we  have  taken  up  arms 
again  I  have  raised  a  thousand  heads  as  hard  as  mine 
for  the  service  of  the  king.  It  is  now  seven  years  that 
I  have  risked  my  life  in  the  good  cause  ;  I  don't  blame 
you,  but  I  sa}^  that  the  laborer  is  worthy  of  his  hire. 
Now,  to  begin  with,  I  demand  that  I  be  called  Monsieur 
de  Cottereau.  I  also  demand  that  the  rank  of  colonel 
shall  be  granted  me,  or  I  send  in  my  adhesion  to  the 
First  Consul !  Let  me  tell  you,  monsieur  le  marquis, 
my  men  and  I  have  a  devilishly  importunate  creditor 
who  must  be  satisfied  —  he  's  here  !  "  he  added,  striking 
his  stomach. 

"Have  the  musicians  come?"  said  the  marquis,  in  a 
contemptuous  tone,  turning  to  Madame  du  Gua. 

But  the  smuggler  had  dealt  boldly  with  an  important 
topic,  and  the  calculating,  ambitious  minds  of  those 
present  had  been  too  long  in  suspense  as  to  what  they 
might  hope  for  from  the  king  to  allow  the  scorn  of 
their  new  leader  to  put  an  end  to  the  scene.  Rifoel 
hastily  blocked  the  way  before  Montauran,  and  seized 
his  hand  to  oblige  him  to  remain. 

"Take  care,  monsieur  le  marquis,"  he  said;  "you 
are  treating  far  too  lightly-  men  who  have  a  right  to  the 
gratitude  of  him  whom  you  are  here  to  represent.  We 
know  that  his  Majesty  has  sent  3'ou  with  full  powers  to 
judge  of  our  services,  and  we  say  that  they  ought  to  be 
recognized  and  rewarded,  for  we  risk  our  heads  upon 
the  scaffold  daily.  I  know,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned, 
that  the  rank  of  brigadier-general  —  " 

"You  mean  colonel." 

"  No,   monsieur   le  marquis ;   Charette   made   me    a 


282  The   Ohouans. 

colonel.  The  rank  I  mention  cannot  be  denied  me.  I 
am  not  arguing  for  myself,  I  speak  for  my  brave  broth- 
ers-in-arms,  whose  services  ought  to  be  recorded.  Your 
signature  and  your  promise  will  suffice  them  for  the 
present ;  though/'  he  added,  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  must  say 
the}'  are  satisfied  with  very  little.  But,"  he  continued, 
raising  his  voice,  "  when  the  sun  rises  on  the  chateau  of 
Versailles  to  glorify  the  return  of  the  monarchy  after 
the  faithful  have  conquered  France,  i?i  France^  for  the 
king,  will  they  obtain  favors  for  their  families,  pensions 
for  widows,  and  the  restitution  of  their  confiscated 
property?  I  doubt  it.  But,  monsieur  le  marquis,  we 
must  have  certified  proof  of  our  services  when  that 
time  comes.  I  will  never  distrust  the  king,  but  I  do 
distrust  those  cormorants  of  ministers  and  courtiers, 
who  tingle  his  ears  with  talk  about  the  public  welfare, 
the  honor  of  France,  the  interests  of  the  crown,  and 
other  crochets.  They  will  sneer  at  a  loyal  Vendean  or 
a  brave  Chouan,  because  he  is  old  and  the  sword  he 
drew  for  the  good  cause  dangles  on  his  withered  legs, 
palsied  with  exposure.  Can  you  say  that  we  are  wrong 
in  feeling  thus?  " 

^'  You  talk  well,  Monsieur  du  Vissard,  but  3'ou  are 
over  hasty,"  replied  the  marquis. 

"Listen,  marquis,  said  the  Comte  de  Bauvan,  in  a 
whisper.  "  Rifoel  has  really,  on  m^-  word,  told  the 
truth.  You  are  sure,  yourself,  to  have  the  ear  of  the 
king,  while  the  rest  of  us  only  see  him  at  a  distance 
and  from  time  to  time.  I  will  own  to  3^ou  that  if  you 
do  not  give  me  your  word  as  a  gentleman  that  I  shall, 
in  due  course  of  time,  obtain  the  place  of  Master  of 
Woods  and  Waters  in  France,  the  devil  take  me  if  I 
will  risk  my  neck  any  longer.     To  conquer  Normandy 


The   Chouans.  283 

for  the  king  is  not  an  easy  matter,  and  I  demand  the 
Order  for  it.  But,"  he  added,  coloring,  *'  there  's  time 
enough  to  think  of  that.  God  forbid  that  1  should 
imitate  these  poor  mercenaries  and  harass  you.  Speak 
to  the  king  for  me,  and  that 's  enough." 

Each  of  the  chiefs  found  means  to  let  the  marquis 
know,  in  a  more  or  less  ingenious  manner,  the  exag- 
gerated price  they  set  upon  their  services.  One  mod- 
estly demanded  the  governorship  of  Brittany  ;  another 
a  barony  ;  this  one  a  promotion  ;  that  one  a  command  ; 
and  all  wanted  pensions. 

"Well,  baron,"  said  the  marquis  to  Monsieur  du 
Guenic,  ''  don't  you  want  anything?  " 

"These  gentlemen  have  left  me  nothing  but  the 
crown  of  France,  marquis,  but  I  might  manage  to  put 
up  with  that  —  " 

"  Gentlemen  !  "  cried  the  Abb6  Gudin,  in  a  loud  voice, 
"  remember  that  if  3^ou  are  too  eager  you  will  spoil  every- 
thing in  the  day  of  victory.  The  king  will  then  be  com- 
pelled to  make  concessions  to  the  revolutionists." 

"  To  those  Jacobins  !  "  shouted  the  smuggler.  "  Ha  ! 
if  the  king  would  let  me  have  my  way,  I  'd  answer  for 
my  thousand  men  ;  we  'd  soon  wring  their  necks  and  be 
rid  of  them." 

"  Monsieur  de  Cottereau,"  said  the  marquis,  "  I 
see  some  of  our  invited  guests  arriving.  We  must  all 
do  our  best  b}'  attention  and  courtesy  to  make  them 
share  our  sacred  enterprise  ;  you  will  agree,  I  am  sure, 
that  this  is  not  the  moment  to  bring  forward  your  de- 
mands, however  just  they  msLj  be." 

So  saying,  the  marquis  went  towards  the  door,  as  if  to 
meet  certain  of  the  country  nobles  who  were  entering 
the  room,  but  the  bold  smuggler  barred  his  way  in  a 
respectful  manner. 


284  The  Chouans. 

*'  No,  no,  monsieur  le  marquis,  excuse  me,"  he  said  : 
"  the  Jacobins  taught  me  too  well  in  1793  that  it  is  not 
he  that  sows  and  reaps  who  eats  the  bread.  Sign  this  bit 
of  paper  for  me,  and  to-morrow  I  '11  bring  you  fifteen 
hundred  gars.    If  not,  I  '11  treat  with  the  First  Consul." 

Looking  haughtily  about  him,  the  marquis  saw  plainly 
that  the  boldness  of  the  old  partisan  and  his  resolute 
air  were  not  displeasing  to  any  of  the  spectators  of  this 
debate.  One  man  alone,  sitting  by  himself  in  a  corner 
of  the  room,  appeared  to  take  no  part  in  the  scene,  and 
to  be  chiefly  occupied  in  filling  his  pipe.  The  con- 
temptuous air  with  which  he  glanced  at  the  speakers, 
his  modest  demeanor,  and  a  look  of  sympathy  which 
the  marquis  encountered  in  his  eyes,  made  the  3'oung 
leader  observe  the  man,  whom  he  then  recognized  as 
Major  Brigaut,  and  he  went  suddenly  up  to  him. 

''  And  you,  what  do  you  want?  "  he  said. 

''  Oh,  monsieur  le  marquis,  if  the  king  comes  back 
that 's  all  I  want." 

"  But  for  yourself  ?  " 

' '  For  myself  ?  are  3'ou  joking  ?  " 

The  marquis  pressed  the  horny  hand  of  the  Breton, 
and  said  to  Madame  du  Gua,  who  was  near  them : 
"  Madame,  I  may  perish  in  this  enterprise  before  I 
have  time  to  make  a  faithful  report  to  the  king  on  the 
Catholic  armies  of  Brittany.  I  charge  3^ou,  in  case  you 
live  to  see  the  Restoration,  not  to  forget  this  honorable 
man  nor  the  Baron  du  Gruenic.  There  is  more  devo- 
tion in  them  than  in  all  those  other  men  put  together." 

He  pointed  to  the  chiefs,  who  were  waiting  with  some 
impatience  till  the  marquis  should  reply  to  their  de- 
mands. They  were  all  holding  papers  in  their  hands, 
on  which,  no  doubt,  their  services  were  recorded  over 


The  Chouans.  285 

the  signatures  of  the  various  generals  of  the  former 
war ;  and  all  were  murmuring.  The  Abbe  Gudin,  the 
Comte  de  Bauvan,  and  the  Baron  du  Guenic  were  con- 
sulting how  best  to  help  the  marquis  in  rejecting  these 
extravagant  demands,  for  they  felt  the  position  of  the 
young  leader  to  be  extremely  delicate. 

Suddenly  the  marquis  ran  his  blue  eyes,  gleaming 
with  satire,  over  the  whole  assembly,  and  said  in  a  clear 
voice  :  "  Gentlemen,  I  do  not  know  whether  the  powers 
which  the  king  has  graciously  assigned  to  me  are  such 
that  I  am  able  to  satisfj^  3^our  demands.  He  doubtless 
did  not  foresee  such  zeal,  such  devotion,  on  your  part. 
You  shall  judge  yourselves  of  the  duties  put  upon  me, 
—  duties  which  I  shall  know  how  to  accomplish." 

So  saying,  he  left  the  room  and  returned  immediately 
holding  in  his  hand  an  open  letter  bearing  the  royal  seal 
and  signature. 

"  These  are  the  letters-patent  in  virtue  of  which  you 
are  to  obey  me,"  he  said.  "  They  authorize  me  to 
govern  the  provinces  of  Brittany,  Normandy,  Maine, 
and  Anjou,  in  the  king's  name,  and  to  recognize  the 
services  of  such  officers  as  may  distinguish  themselves 
in  his  armies." 

A  movement  of  satisfaction  ran  through  the  assembly. 
The  Chouans  approached  the  marquis  and  made  a  re- 
spectful circle  round  him.  All  eyes  fastened  on  the 
king's  signature.  The  young  chief,  who  was  standing 
near  the  chimney,  suddenly  threw  the  letters  into  the 
fire,  and  they  were  burned  in  a  second. 

"  I  do  not  choose  to  command  any,"  cried  the  young 
man,  "  but  those  who  see  a  king  in  the  king,  and  not  a 
prey  to  prey  upon.  You  are  free,  gentlemen,  to  leave 
me." 


286  The  Chouans. 

Madame  du  Gua,  the  Abbe  Gudin,  Major  Brigaut, 
the  Chevalier  du  Vissard,  the  Baron  du  Guenic,  and  the 
Comte  de  Bauvan  raised  the  cr}-  of  "  Vive  le  roi !  " 
For  a  moment  the  other  leaders  hesitated  ;  then,  carried 
away  by  the  noble  action  of  the  marquis,  they  begged 
him  to  forget  what  had  passed,  assuring  him  that,  let- 
ters-patent or  not,  he  must  always  be  their  leader. 

"Come  and  dance,"  cried  the  Comte  de  Bauvan, 
"  and  happen  what  will  !  After  all,"  he  added,  gayly, 
"it  is  better,  my  friends,  to  pray  to  God  than  the 
saints.     Let  us  fight  first,  and  see  what  comes  of  it." 

"Ha!  that's  good  advice,"  said  Brigaut.  "  I  have 
never  yet  known  a  day's  pay  drawn  in  the  morning." 

The  assembly  dispersed  about  the  rooms,  where  the 
guests  were  now  arriving.  The  marquis  tried  in  vain 
to  shake  off  the  gloom  which  darkened  his  face.  The 
chiefs  perceived  the  unfavorable  impression  made  upon 
a  young  man  whose  devotion  was  still  surrounded  by 
all  the  beautiful  illusions  of  youth,  and  they  were 
ashamed  of  their  action. 

However,  a  joyous  gaj^ety  soon  enlivened  the  opening 
of  the  ball,  at  which  were  present  the  most  important 
personages  of  the  ro^^alist  party,  who,  unable  to  judge 
rightly,  in  the  depths  of  a  rebellious  province,  of  the 
actual  events  of  the  Revolution,  mistook  their  hopes  for 
realities.  The  bold  operations  already  begun  b}'  Mon- 
tauran,  his  name,  his  fortune,  his  capacity,  raised  their 
courage  and  caused  that  political  intoxication,  the  most 
dangerous  of  all  excitements,  which  does  not  cool  till 
torrents  of  blood  have  been  uselessly  shed.  In  the 
minds  of  all  present  the  Revolution  was  nothing  more 
than  a  passing  trouble  to  the  kingdom  of  F'rance,  where, 
to  their  belated  eyes,  nothing  was  changed.     The  coun- 


The   Chouans.  287 

try  belonged  as  it  ever  did  to  the  house  of  Bourbon. 
The  royalists  were  the  lords  of  the  soil  as  completely 
as  they  were  four  years  earlier,  when  Hoche  obtained 
less  a  peace  than  an  armistice.  The  nobles  made  light 
of  the  revolutionists  ;  for  them  Bonaparte  was  another, 
but  more  fortunate,  Marceau.  So  gayety  reigned. 
The  women  had  come  to  dance.  A  few  onl}'  of  the 
chiefs,  who  had  fought  the  Blues,  knew  the  gravity  of 
the  situation  ;  but  the}'  were  well  aware  that  if  the}^ 
talked  of  the  First  Consul  and  his  power  to  their  be- 
nighted companions,  they  could  not  make  themselves 
understood.  These  men  stood  apart  and  looked  at 
the  women  with  indifference.  Madame  du  Gua,  who 
seemed  to  do  the  honors  of  the  ball,  endeavored  to 
quiet  the  impatience  of  the  dancers  b}^  dispensing 
flatteries  to  each  in  turn.  The  musicians  were  tuning 
their  instruments  and  tiie  dancing  was  about  to  begin, 
when  Madame  du  Gua  noticed  the  gloom  on  de  Mon- 
tauran's  face  and  went  hurriedly  up  to  him. 

"I  hope  it  is  not  that  vulgar  scene  you  have  just 
had  with  those  clodhoppers  which  depresses  yon?"  she 
said. 

She  got  no  answer  ;  the  marquis,  absorbed  in  thought, 
was  listening  in  fancy  to  the  prophetic  reasons  which 
Marie  had  given  him  in  the  midst  of  the  same  chiefs  at 
La  Vivetiere,  urging  him  to  abandon  the  struggle  of 
kings  against  peoples.  But  the  young  man's  soul  was 
too  proud,  too  lofty,  too  full  perhaps  of  conviction,  to 
abandon  an  enterprise  he  had  once  begun,  and  he  de- 
cided at  this  moment,  to  continue  it  boldly  in  the  face 
of  all  obstacles.  He  raised  his  head  haughtily,  and  for 
the  first  time  noticed  that  Madame  du  Gua  was  speak- 
ing to  him. 


288  The   Chouans. 

"  Your  mind  is  no  doubt  at  F'ougeres,"  she  remarked 
bitterly,  seeing  how  useless  her  efforts  to  attract  his  at- 
tention had  been.  "  Ah,  monsieur,  I  would  give  my 
life  to  put  her  within  your  power,  and  see  you  happj- 
with  her." 

"  Then  why  have  you  done  all  you  could  to  kill  her  ?  " 

"  Because  I  wish  her  dead  or  in  your  arms.  Yes,  I 
ma}'  have  loved  the  Marquis  de  Montauran  when  I 
thought  him  a  hero,  but  now  I  feel  only  a  pitying 
friendship  for  him  ;  I  see  him  shorn  of  all  his  glor}"  by 
a  fickle  love  for  a  worthless  woman," 

'*  As  for  love,"  said  the  marquis,  in  a  sarcastic  tone, 
"  you  judge  me  wrong.  If  I  loved  that  girl,  madame, 
I  might  desire  her  less  ;  if  it  were  not  for  you,  per- 
haps I  should  not  think  of  her  at  all." 

"Here  she  is  !  "  exclaimed  Madame  du  Gua,  abruptly. 

The  haste  with  which  the  marquis  looked  round  went 
to  the  heart  of  the  woman ;  but  the  clear  light  of  the 
wax  candles  enabled  her  to  see  every  change  on  the 
face  of  the  man  she  loved  so  violentl}^,  and  when  he 
turned  back  his  face,  smiling  at  her  woman's  trick,  she 
fancied  there  was  still  some  hope  of  recovering  him. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?"  asked  the  Comte  de 
Bauvan. 

"At  a  soap-bubble  which  has  burst,"  interposed 
Madame  du  Gua,  gayly.  "  The  marquis,  if  we  are  now 
to  believe  him,  is  astonished  that  his  heart  ever  beat  the 
faster  for  that  girl  who  presumes  to  call  herself  Made- 
moiselle de  Verneuil.     You  know  who  I  mean." 

"That  girl!"  echoed  the  count.  "Madame,  the 
author  of  a  wrong  is  bound  to  repair  it.  I  give  you  my 
word  of  honor  that  she  is  really  the  daughter  of  the 
Due  de  Verneuil." 


The  Chouans.  289 

••'  Monsieur  le  comte,"  said  the  marquis,  in  a  changed 
voice,  "  which  of  your  statements  am  I  to  believe, — 
that  of  La  Vivetiere,  or  that  now  made  ?  " 

The  loud  voice  of  a  servant  at  the  door  announced 
Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil.  The  count  sprang  forward 
instanth',  offered  his  hand  to  the  beautiful  woman  with 
every  mark  of  profound  respect,  and  led  her  through 
the  inquisitive  crowd  to  the  marquis  and  Madame  du 
Gua.  "  Believe  the  one  now  made,"  he  replied  to  the 
astonished  young  leader. 

Madame  du  Gua  turned  pale  at  the  unwelcome  sight 
of  the  girl,  who  stood  for  a  moment,  glancing  proudly 
over  the  assembled  compaii}',  among  whom  she  sought 
to  find  the  guests  at  La  Vivetiere.  She  awaited  the 
forced  salutation  of  her  rival,  and,  without  even  looking 
at  the  marquis,  she  allowed  the  count  to  lead  her  to  the 
place  of  honor  beside  Madame  du  Gua,  whose  bow  she 
returned  with  an  air  that  was  slightly  protecting.  But 
the  latter,  with  a  woman's  instinct,  took  no  offense ; 
on  the  contrar}',  she  immediately  assumed  a  smiling, 
friendly  manner.  The  extraordinary  dress  and  beauty 
of  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  caused  a  murmur  through- 
out the  ballroom.  When  the  marquis  and  Madame  du 
Gua  looked  towards  the  late  guests  at  La  Vivetiere  thej^ 
saw  them  in  an  attitude  of  respectful  admiration  which 
was  not  assumed  ;  each  seemed  desirous  of  recovering 
favor  with  the  misjudged  young  woman.  The  enemies 
were  in  presence  of  each  other. 

''  This  is  really  magic,  mademoiselle,"  said  Madame 
du  Gua ;  "there  is  no  one  like  you  for  surprises.  Have 
you  come  all  alone  ?  " 

"  All  alone,"  replied  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil.  "  So 
you  have  only  one  to  kill  to-night,  madame." 

19 


290  The   Chouans. 

"Be  merciful,"  said  Madame  du  Gua.  •■  1  cannot 
express  to  you  the  pleasure  I  have  in  seeing  you  again. 
I  have  truly  been  overwhelmed  by  the  remembrance  of 
the  wrongs  I  have  done  you,  and  am  most  anxious  for 
an  occasion  to  repair  them." 

''  As  for  those  wrongs,  madame,  I  readily  pardon 
those  you  did  to  me,  but  my  heart  bleeds  for  the  Blues 
whom  you  murdered.  However,  I  excuse  all,  in  re- 
turn for  the  service  you  have  done  me." 

Madame  du  Gua  lost  countenance  as  she  felt  her 
hand  pressed  by  her  beautiful  rival  with  insulting  cour- 
tes}'.  The  marquis  had  hitherto  stood  motionless,  but 
he  now  seized  the  arm  of  the  count. 

"You  have  shamefully  misled  me,"  he  said;  "you 
have  compromised  my  honor.  I  am  not  a  Geronte  of 
comedy,  and  I  shall  have  your  Ufe  or  you  will  have 
mine." 

"Marquis,"  said  the  count,  haughtily,  "lam  ready 
to  give  3'ou  all  the  explanations  you  desire." 

They  passed  into  the  next  room.  The  witnesses  of 
this  scene,  even  those  least  initiated  into  the  secret, 
began  to  understand  its  nature,  so  that  when  the  musi- 
cians gave  the  signal  for  the  dancing  to  begin  no  one 
moved. 

"  Mademoiselle,  what  service  have  I  rendered  you 
that  deserves  a  return?"  said  Madame  du  Gua,  biting 
her  lips  in  a  sort  of  rage. 

' '  Did  you  not  enlighten  me  as  to  the  true  character 
of  the  Marquis  de  Montauran,  madame?  With  what 
utter  indifference  that  man  allowed  me  to  go  to  my 
death !     I  give  him  up  to  j^ou  willingly." 

"Then  why  are  you  here?"  asked  Madame  du  Gua, 
eagerly. 


The   Chouans.  291 

''  To  recover  the  respecj;  and  consideration  you  took 
from  me  at  La  Vivetiere,  madame.  As  for  all  the  rest, 
make  yourself  easy.  Even  if  the  marquis  returned  to 
me,  you  know  very  well  that  a  return  is  never  love." 

Madame  du  Gua  took  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil's 
hand  with  that  affectionate  touch  and  motion  which 
women  practise  to  each  other,  especiall}^  in  the  presence 
of  men. 

"Well,  my  poor  dear  child,"  she  said,  "  I  am  glad 
to  find  you  so  reasonable.  If  the  service  I  did  you  was 
rather  harsh,"  she  added,  pressing  the  hand  she  held, 
and  feeling  a  desire  to  rend  it  as  her  fingers  felt  its 
softness  and  delicacy,  "it  shall  at  least  be  thorough. 
Listen  to  me,  I  know  the  character  of  the  Gars ;  he 
meant  to  deceive  you  ;  he  neither  can  nor  will  marry 
any  woman  except — " 

"Ah!" 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle,  he  has  accepted  his  dangerous 
mission  to  win  the  hand  of  Mademoiselle  d'Uxelles,  a 
marriage  to  which  his  Majesty  has  promised  his  coun- 
tenance." 

"Ah!  ah!" 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  added  not  a  word  to  that 
scornful  ejaculation.  The  young  and  handsome  Cheva- 
lier du  Vissard,  eager  to  be  forgiven  for  the  joke  which 
had  led  to  the  insults  at  La  Vivetiere,  now'  came  up  to 
her  and  respectfully  invited  her  to  dance.  She  placed 
her  hand  in  his,  and  the}'  took  their  places  in  a  quad- 
rille opposite  to  Madame  du  Gua.  The  gowns  of  the 
royalist  women,  which  recalled  the  fashions  of  the  ex- 
iled court,  and  their  creped  and  powdered  hair  seemed 
absurd  as  soon  as  they  were  contrasted  with  the  attire 
which  republican  fashions  authorized  Mademoiselle  de 


292  The   Chouans. 

Verneuil  to  wear.  This  attire,  which  was  elegant,  rich, 
and  3'et  severe,  was  loudl}'  condemned  but  inwardly 
envied  by  all  the  women  present.  The  men  could  not 
restrain  their  admiration  for  the  beauty  of  her  natural 
hair  and  the  adjustment  of  a  dress  the  charm  of  which 
was  in  the  proportions  of  the  form  which  it  revealed. 

At  that  moment  the  marquis  and  the  count  re-entered 
the  ballroom  behind  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  who  did 
not  turn  her  head.  If  a  mirror  had  not  been  there  to 
inform  her  of  Montauran's  presence,  she  would  have 
known  it  from  Madame  du  Gua's  face,  which  scarcely 
concealed,  under  an  apparently  indifferent  air,  the  im- 
patience with  which  she  awaited  the  conflict  which  must, 
sooner  or  later,  take  place  between  the  lovers.  Though 
the  marquis  talked  with  the  count  and  other  persons,  he 
heard  the  remarks  of  all  the  dancers  who  from  time  to 
time  in  the  mazes  of  the  quadrille  took  the  place  of 
Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  and  her  partner. 

"  Positivel}',  madame,  she  came  alone,"  said  one. 

''  She  must  be  a  bold  woman,"  replied  the  lady. 

"  If  I  were  dressed  like  that  I  should  feel  myself 
naked,"  said  another  woman. 

"  Oh,  the  gown  is  not  decent,  certainl}-,"  replied  her 
partner;  "  but  it  is  so  becoming,  and  she  is  so  hand- 
some." 

"  I  am  ashamed  to  look  at  such  perfect  dancing,  for 
her  sake  ;  is  n't  it  exactly  that  of  an  opera  girl  ?  "  said 
the  envious  woman. 

' '  Do  3"0U  suppose  she  has  come  here  to  intrigue  for 
the  First  Consul?"  said  another. 

**  A  joke  if  she  has,"  replied  the  partner. 

*' Well,  she  can't  offer  innocence  as  a  dowry,"  said 
the  lady,  laughing. 


The   Chouans.  293 

The  Gars  turned  abrupth'  to  see  the  lad}'  who  uttered 
this,  sarcasm,  and  Madame  du  Gua  looked  at  him  as 
if  to  say,  "  You  see  what  people  think  of  her." 

''Madame,"  said  the  count,  laughing,  "so  far,  it  is 
only  women  who  have  taken  her  innocence  away  from 
her." 

The  marquis  privately  forgave  the  count.  When  he 
ventured  to  look  at  his  mistress,  whose  beauty  was,  like 
that  of  most  women,  brought  into  relief  by  the  light  of 
the  wax  candles,  she  turned  her  back  upon  him  as  she 
resumed  her  place,  and  went  on  talking  to  her  partner 
in  a  way  to  let  the  marquis  hear  the  sweetest  and  most 
caressing  tones  of  her  voice. 

''The  First  Consul  sends  dangerous  ambassadors,*' 
her  partner  was  saying. 

''Monsieur,"  she  replied,  "you  all  said  that  at  La 
Vivetiere." 

"You  have  the  memory  of  a  king,"  replied  he,  dis- 
concerted at  his  own  awkwardness. 

"To  forgive  injuries  one  must  needs  remember  them," 
she  said  quickly,  relieving  his  embarrassment  with  a 
smile. 

"Are  we  all  included  in  that  amnesty?"  said  the 
marquis,  approaching  her. 

But  she  darted  away  in  the  dance,  with  the  ga3'ety  of 
a  child,  leaving  him  without  an  answer.  He  watched 
her  coldly  and  sadly ;  she  saw  it,  and  bent  her  head 
with  one  of  those  coquettish  motions  which  the  graceful 
lines  of  her  throat  enabled  her  to  make,  omitting  no 
movement  or  attitude  which  could  prove  to  him  the 
perfection  of  her  figure.  She  attracted  him  like  hope, 
and  eluded  him  like  a  memory.  To  see  her  thus  was 
to  desire  to  possess  her  at  an}  cost.     She  knew  that, 


294  The   Chouans. 

and  the  sense  it  gave  her  of  her  own  beauty  shed  upon 
her  whole  person  an  inexpressible  charm.  The  mar- 
quis felt  the  storm  of  love,  of  rage,  of  madness,  rising 
in  his  heart ;  he  wrung  the  count's  hand  violently  and 
left  the  room. 

"Is  he  gone?"  said  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  re- 
turning to  her  place. 

The  count  gave  her  a  glance  and  passed  into  the  next 
room,  from  which  he  presently  returned  accompanied 
by  the  Gars. 

"He  is  mine!"  she  thought,  observing  his  face  in 
the  mirror. 

She  received  the  young  leader  with  a  displeased  air 
and  said  nothing,  but  she  smiled  as  she  turned  away 
from  him  ;  he  was  so  superior  to  all  about  him  that  she 
was  proud  of  being  able  to  rule  him  ;  and  obe3'iug  an 
instinct  which  sways  all  women  more  or  less,  she  re- 
solved to  let  him  know  the  value  of  a  few  gracious 
words  by  making  him  pay  dear  for  them.  As  soon  as 
the  quadrille  was  over,  all  the  gentlemen  who  had  been 
at  La  Vivetiere  surrounded  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil, 
wishing  b}'  their  flatterhig  attentions  to  obtain  her  par- 
don for  the  mistake  the}'  had  made ;  but  he  whom  she 
longed  to  see  at  her  feet  did  not  approach  the  circle 
over  which  she  now  reigned  a  queen. 

"He  thinks  1  still  love  him,"  she  thought,  "  and  does 
not  wish  to  be  confounded  with  mere  flatterers." 

She  refused  to  dance  again.  Then,  as  if  the  ball 
were  given  for  her,  she  walked  about  on  the  arm  of  the 
Comte  de  Bauvan,  to  whom  she  was  pleased  to  show 
some  familiarity.  The  affair  at  La  Vivetiere  was  by 
this  time  known  to  all  present,  thanks  to  Madame  du 
Gua,  and  the  lovers  were  the  object  of  general  attention. 


The  Chonans.  295 

The  marquis  dared  not  again  address  his  mistress  ;  a 
sense  of  the  wrong  he  had  done  her  and  the  violence  of 
his  returning  passion  made  her  seem  to  him  actually 
terrible.  On  her  side  Marie  watched  .his  apparentlj^ 
calm  face  while  she  seemed  to  be  observing  the  ball. 

"It  is  fearfulh'  hot  here,"  she  said  to  the  count. 
"  Take  me  to  the  other  side  where  I  can  breathe ;  I 
am  stifling  here." 

And  she  motioned  towards  a  small  room  where  a  few 
card-players  were  assembled.  The  marquis  followed  her. 
He  ventured  to  hope  she  had  left  the  crowd  to  receive 
liim,  and  this  supposed  favor  roused  his  passion  to  ex- 
treme violence  ;  for  his  love  had  only  increased  through 
the  resistance  he  had  made  to  it  during  the  last  few 
days.  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  still  tormented  him  ; 
her  eyes,  so  soft  and  velvety  for  the  count,  were  hard 
and  stern  when,  as  if  by  accident,  the}'  met  his.  Mon- 
tauran  at  last  made  a  painful  effort  and  said,  in  a 
muffled  voice,  "Will  3'ou  never  forgive  me?" 

^'Love  forgives  nothing,  or  it  forgives  all,"  she  said, 
coldly.  "But,"  she  added,  noticing  his  joyful  look, 
"it  must  be  love." 

She  took  the  count's  arm  once  more  and  moved  for- 
ward into  a  small  boudoir  which  adjoined  the  cardroom. 
The  marquis  followed  her. 

"  Will  3'ou  not  hear  me? "  he  said. 

"One  would  really  think,  monsieur,"  she  replied, 
"  that  I  had  come  here  to  meet  you,  and  not  to  vindi- 
cate my  own  self-respect.  If  you  do  not  cease  this 
odious  pursuit  I  shall  leave  the  ballroom. 

''  Ah  !  "  he  cried,  recollecting  one  of  the  crazy  actions 
of  the  last  Due  de  Lorraine,  "  let  me  speak  to  you  only 
so  long  as  I  can  hold  this  live  coal  in  my  hand." 


296  The  Chouans, 

He  stooped  to  the  hearth  and  picking  up  a  brand 
held  it  tightl}'.  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  flushed,  took 
her  arm  from  that  of  the  count,  and  looked  at  the  mar- 
quis in  amazement.  The  count  softl3'  withdrew,  leaving 
them  alone  together.  So  crazy  an  action  shook  Marie's 
heart,  for  there  is  nothing  so  persuasive  in  love  as  cou- 
rageous folly. 

*'You  ox\\y  prove  to  me,"  she  said,  tr3ing  to  make 
him  throw  away  the  brand,  "that  3'ou  are  wilUng  to 
make  me  suffer  cruelly.  You  are  extreme  in  ever}-- 
thing.  On  tlie  word  of  a  fool  and  the  slander  of  a 
woman  you  suspected  that  one  who  had  just  saved  your 
life  was  capable  of  betraying  3'ou." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  smiling,  "  I  have  been  very  cruel  to 
you ;  but  nevertheless,  forget  it ;  I  shall  never  forget 
it.  Hear  me.  I  have  been  shamefully  deceived ;  but 
so  many  circumstances  on  that  fatal  day  told  against 
you  — " 

"  And  those  circumstances  were  stronger  than  3'our 
love?" 

He  hesitated ;  she  made  a  motion  of  contempt,  and 
rose. 

*'  Oh,  Marie.  I  shall  never  cease  to  believe  in  you 
now." 

"Then  throw  that  fire  away.  You  are  mad.  Open 
3'our  hand  ;  I  insist  upon  it." 

He  took  delight  in  still  resisting  the  soft  efforts  of 
her  fingers,  but  she  succeeded  in  opening  the  hand  she 
would  fain  have  kissed. 

"  What  good  did  that  do  you  ?  "  she  said,  as  she  tore 
her  handkerchief  and  laid  it  on  the  burn,  which  the 
marquis  covered  with  his  glove. 

Madame  du  Gua  had  stolen  softly  into  the  cardroom. 


The  Chouans.  297 

watching  the  lovers  with  furtive  eyes,  but  escaping 
theirs,  adroitly  ;  it  was,  however,  impossible  for  her  to 
understand  their  conversation  from  their  actions. 

''  If  all  that  they  said  of  me  was  true  you  must  admit 
that  I  am  avenged  at  this  moment,"  said  Marie,  with  a 
look  of  malignity  which  startled  the  marquis. 

"  What  feehng  brought  you  here?  "  he  asked. 

"Do  you  suppose,  my  dear  friend,  that  you  can 
despise  a  woman  like  me  with  impunity  ?  I  came  here 
for  3'our  sake  and  my  own,"  she  continued,  after  a 
pause,  laying  her  hand  on  the  hilt  of  rubies  in  her 
bosom  and  showing  him  the  blade  of  her  dagger. 

"What  does  all  that  mean?"  thought  Madame  du 
Gua. 

''  But,"  she  continued,  "  you  still  love  me  ;  at  any  rate, 
you  desire  me,  and  the  folly  you  liave  just  committed," 
she  added,  taking  his  hand,  "  proves  it  to  me.  I  will 
again  be  that  I  desired  to  be ;  and  I  return  to  Foug^res 
happ3'.  Love  absolves  ever3'thing.  You  love  me ;  I 
have  regained  the  respect  of  the  man  who  represents 
to  me  the  whole  world,  and  I  can  die." 

"  Then  you  still  love  me?"  said  the  marquis. 

"  Have  I  said  so?  "  she  replied  with  a  scornful  look, 
delighting  in  the  torture  she  was  making  him  endure. 
•'  I  have  run  many  risks  to  come  here.  I  have  saved 
Monsieur  de  Bauvan's  life,  and  he,  more  grateful  than 
others,  offers  me  in  return  his  fortune  and  his  name. 
You  have  never  even  thought  of  doing  that." 

The  marquis,  bewildered  by  these  words,  stifled  the 
worst  anger  he  had  ever  felt,  supposing  that  the  count 
had  played  him  false.     He  made  no  answer. 

"  Ah  !  you  reflect,"  she  said,  bitterly. 

"Mademoiselle,"  replied  the  young  man,  "your 
doubts  justify  mine." 


298  The  Chouans. 

"  Let  us  leave  this  room,"  said  Mademoiselle  de  Ver- 
neuil,  catching  sight  of  a  corner  of  Madame  du  Gua's 
gown,  and  rising.  But  the  wish  to  reduce  her  rival  to 
despair  was  too  strong,  and  she  made  no  further  mo- 
tion to  go. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  drive  me  to  hell?  "  cried  the  mar- 
quis, seizing  her  hand  and  pressing  it  violently. 

''  Did  you  not  drive  me  to  hell  five  days  ago?  are  you 
not  leaving  me  at  this  very  moment  uncertain  whether 
3'our  love  is  sincere  or  not?  " 

"  But  how  do  I  know  whether  your  revenge  may  not 
lead  you  to  obtain  my  life  to  tarnish  it,  instead  of 
killing  me." 

••Ah!  3'ou  do  not  love  me!  you  think  of  yourself 
and  not  of  me !"  she  said  angrily,  shedding  a  few  tears. 

The  coquettish  creature  well  knew  the  power  of  her 
eyes  when  moistened  by  tears. 

"  Well,  then,"  he  cried,  beside  himself,  "take  my  life, 
but  dry  those  tears." 

"  Oh,  my  love  !  my  love  !  "  she  exclaimed  in  a  stifled 
voice ;  "  those  are  the  words,  the  accents,  the  looks  I 
have  longed  for,  to  allow  me  to  prefer  your  happi- 
ness to  mine.  But,"  she  added,  "  I  ask  one  more 
proof  of  your  love,  which  you  say  is  so  great.  I  wish 
to  stay  here  onlj^  so  long  as  may  be  needed  to  show  the 
compan}^  that  you  are  mine.  I  will  not  even  drink  a 
glass  of  water  in  the  house  of  a  woman  who  has  twice 
tried  to  kill  me,  who  is  now,  perhaps,  plotting  mischief 
against  us,"  and  she  showed  the  marquis  the  floating 
corner  of  Madame  du  Gua's  drapery.  Then  she  dried  her 
eyes  and  put  her  lips  to  the  ear  of  the  young  man,  who 
quivered  as  he  felt  the  soft  caress  of  her  warm  breath. 
"  See  that  everything  is  prepared  for  my  departure," 


The   Okouans.  299 

she  said  ;  '•  you  shall  take  me  yourself  to  Fougeres  and 
there  only  will  I  tell  you  if  I  love  you.  For  the  second 
time  I  trust  you.     Will  you  trust  me  a  second  time? " 

*'  Ah,  Marie,  3'ou  have  brought  me  to  a  point  where  I 
know  not  what  I  do.  I  am  intoxicated  by  your  words, 
your  looks,  by  you  —  by  j^ou,  and  I  am  ready  to  obey  you." 

"  Well,  then,  make  me  for  an  instant  very  happy. 
Let  me  enjoy  the  only  triumph  I  desire.  I  want  to 
breathe  freely,  to  drink  of  the  life  I  have  dreamed,  to 
feed  my  illusions  before  the}'  are  gone  forever.  Come 
—  come  into  the  ballroom  and  dance  with  me." 

They  re-entered  the  room  together,  and  though  Made- 
moiselle de  Verneuil  was  as  completely  satisfied  in  heart 
and  vanity  as  any  woman  ever  could  be,  the  unfathom- 
able gentleness  of  her  eyes,  the  demure  smile  on  her 
lips,  the  rapidity  of  the  motions  of  a  gay  dance,  kept 
the  secret  of  her  thoughts  as  the  sea  swallows  those  of 
the  criminal  who  casts  a  weighted  body  into  its  depths. 
But  a  murmur  of  admiration  ran  through  the  company 
as,  circling  in  each  other's  arms,  eye  to  eye,  voluptuously 
interlaced,  with  heav}"  heads,  and  dimmed  sight,  they 
waltzed  with  a  sort  of  frenzy,  dreaming  of  the  pleasures 
they  hoped  to  find  in  a  future  union. 

A  few  moments  later  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil 
and  the  marquis  were  in  the  latter's  travelling- 
carriage  drawn  by  four  horses.  Surprised  to  see 
these  enemies  hand  in  hand,  and  evidently  under- 
standing each  other,  Francine  kept  silence,  not  daring 
to  ask  her  mistress  whether  her  conduct  was  that  of 
treachery  or  love.  Thanks  to  the  darkness,  the  mar- 
quis did  not  observe  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuirs  agita- 
tion as  they  neared  Fougeres.  The  first  flush  of  dawn 
showed   the  towers  of  Saint-Leonard  in  the  distance. 


300  The  Chouans. 

At  that  moment  Marie  was  saying  to  herself:  '*I  am 
going  to  m3^  death." 

As  the3'  ascended  the  first  hill  the  lovers  had  the  same 
thought ;  they  left  the  carriage  and  mounted  the  rise  on 
foot,  in  memory  of  their  first  meeting.  When  Marie  took 
the  young  man's  arm  she  thanked  him  by  a  smile  for 
respecting  her  silence  ;  then,  as  the}^  reached  the  summit 
of  the  plateau  and  looked  at  Fougeres,  she  threw  off"  her 
revery. 

"  Don't  come  any  farther,"  she  said  ;  "  my  authority 
cannot  save  you  from  the  Blues  to-da}'." 

Montauran  showed  some  surprise.  She  smiled  sadly 
and  pointed  to  a  block  of  a  granite,  as  if  to  tell  him  to 
sit  down,  while  she  herself  stood  before  him  in  a  melan- 
choly attitude.  The  rending  emotions  of  her  soul  no 
longer  permitted  her  to  pla}-  a  part.  At  that  moment 
she  would  have  knelt  on  red-hot  coals  without  feeUng 
them  any  more  than  the  marquis  had  felt  the  fire-brand 
he  had  taken  in  his  hand  to  prove  the  strength  of  his 
passion.  It  was  not  until  she  had  contemplated  her 
lover  with  a  look  of  the  deepest  anguish  that  she  said 
to  him,  at  last :  — 

"  All  that  you  have  suspected  of  me  is  true." 

The  marquis  started. 

"Ah!  I  pra}'  you,"  she  said,  clasping  her  hands, 
"  listen  to  me  without  interruption.  I  am  indeed  the 
daughter  of  the  Due  de  Verneuil,  —  but  his  natural 
daughter.  My  mother,  a  Demoiselle  de  Casteran,  who 
became  a  nun  to  escape  the  reproaches  of  her  family, 
expiated  her  fault  by  fifteen  years  of  sorrow,  and  died 
at  Seez,  where  she  was  abbess.  On  her  death-bed  she 
implored,  for  the  first  time  and  only  for  me,  the  help  of 
the  man  who  had  betrayed  her,  for  she  knew  she  was 


The  Chouans.  301 

leaving  me  without  friends,  without  fortune,  without  a 
future.  The  duke  accepted  the  charge,  and  took  me 
from  the  roof  of  Francine's  mother,  who  had  hitherto 
taken  care  of  me ;  perhaps  he  liked  me  because  I  was 
beautiful ;  possibly  I  reminded  him  of  his  youth.  He 
was  one  of  those  great  lords  of  the  old  regime,  who 
took  pride  in  showing  how  they  could  get  their  crimes 
forgiven  by  committing  them  with  grace.  I  will  say 
no  more,  he  was  my  father.  But  let  me  explain  to  you 
how  m}^  life  in  Paris  injured  my  soul.  The  society  of 
the  Due  de  Verneuil,  to  which  he  introduced  me,  was 
bitten  by  that  scoJfRng  philosophy  about  which  all 
France  was  then  enthusiastic  because  it  was  wittily 
professed.  The  brilliant  conversations  which  charmed 
my  ear  were  marked  by  subtlety  of  perception  and  by 
witty  contempt  for  all  that  was  true  and  spiritual.  Men 
laughed  at  sentiments,  and  pictured  them  all  the  better 
because  they  did  not  feel  them  ;  their  satirical  epigrams 
were  as  fascinating  as  the  light-hearted  humor  with 
which  the}'  could  put  a  whole  adventure  into  a  word ; 
and  yet  they  had  sometimes  too  much  wit,  and  wearied 
women  by  making  love  an  art,  and  not  a  matter  of  feel- 
ing. I  could  not  resist  the  tide.  And  yet  my  soul  was 
too  ardent  —  forgive  this  pride  —  not  to  feel  that  their 
minds  had  withered  their  hearts ;  and  the  life  I  led 
resulted  in  a  perpetual  struggle  between  my  natural 
feelings  and  beliefs  and  the  vicious  habits  of  mind 
which  I  there  contracted.  Several  superior  men  took 
pleasure  in  developing  in  me  that  libert}'  of  thought 
and  contempt  for  public  opinion  which  do  tear  from  a 
woman  her  modesty  of  soul,  robbed  of  which  she  loses 
her  charm.  Alas !  my  subsequent  misfortunes  have 
failed  to  lessen  the  faults  I  learned  through  opulence. 


302  The  Chouans. 

My  father,"  she  continued,  with  a  sigh,  -'the  Due  de 
Verneuil,  died,  after  duly  recognizing  me  as  his  daughter 
and  making  a  provision  for  me  by  his  will,  which  con- 
siderably reduced  the  fortune  of  my  brother,  his  legiti- 
mate son.  I  found  myself  one  day  without  a  home  and 
without  a  protector.  My  brother  contested  the  w41l 
which  made  me  rich.  Three  years  of  my  late  life  had 
developed  my  vanity.  By  satisfying  all  my  fancies  my 
father  had  created  in  my  nature  a  need  of  luxury,  and 
given  me  habits  of  self-indulgence  of  which  my  own 
mind,  young  and  artless  as  it  then  was,  could  not  per- 
ceive either  the  danger  or  the  tyrann}'.  A  friend  of  vay 
father,  the  Marechal  Due  de  Lenoncourt,  then  seventy 
years  old,  offered  to  become  my  guardian,  and  I  found 
myself,  soon  after  the  termination  of  the  odious  suit,  in 
a  brilliant  home,  where  I  enjoyed  all  the  advantages  of 
which  my  brother's  cruelty  had  deprived  me.  Every 
evening  the  old  marechal  came  to  sit  with  me  and  com- 
fort me  with  kind  and  consoling  words.  His  white  hair 
and  the  many  proofs  he  gave  me  of  paternal  tenderness 
led  me  to  turn  all  the  feelings  of  my  heart  upon  him, 
and  I  felt  myself  his  daughter.  I  accepted  his  presents, 
hiding  none  of  my  caprices  from  him,  for  I  saw  how  he 
loved  to  gratif}'  them.  I  heard  one  fatal  evening  that 
all  Paris  believed  me  the  mistress  of  the  poor  old  man. 
I  was  told  that  it  was  then  beyond  my  power  to  recover 
an  innocence  thus  gratuitously  denied  me.  They  said 
that  the  man  who  had  abused  my  inexperience  could 
not  be  my  lover,  and  would  not  be  my  husband.  The 
week  in  which  I  made  this  horrible  discovery  the  duke 
left  Paris.  I  was  shamefully  ejected  from  the  little 
house  where  he  had  placed  me,  and  which  did  not 
belong  to  him.     Up  to  this  point  I  have  told  you  the 


The  Chouans.  303 

truth  as  though  I  stood  before  God  ;  but  now,  do  not 
ask  a  wretched  woman  to  give  account  of  sufferings 
which  are  buried  in  her  heart.  The  time  came  when  I 
found  myself  married  to  Danton.  A  few  days  later  the 
storm  uprooted  the  mighty  oak  around  which  I  had 
thrown  my  arms.  Again  I  was  plunged  into  the  worst 
distress,  and  I  resolved  to  kill  myself.  I  don't  know 
whether  love  of  life,  or  the  liope  of  wearying  ill-fortune 
and  of  finding  at  the  bottom  of  the  abyss  the  happiness 
which  had  always  escaped  me  were,  unconsciouslj'  to 
myself,  my  advisers,  or  whether  I  was  fascinated  by  the 
arguments  of  a  young  man  from  Vendome,  who,  for  the 
last  two  3'ears,  has  wound  himself  about  me  like  a  ser- 
pent round  a  tree, — in  short,  I  know  not  how  it  is 
that  I  accepted,  for  a  payment  of  three  hundred  thou- 
sand francs,  the  odious  mission  of  making  an  unknown 
man  in  love  with  me  and  then  betraying  him.  I  met 
j'ou  ;  I  knew  you  at  once  b}'  one  of  those  presentiments 
which  never  mislead  us  ;  yet  I  tried  to  doubt  my  recog- 
nition, for  the  more  I  came  to  love  you,  the  more  the 
certainty  appalled  me.  When  I  saved  you  from  the 
hands  of  Hulot,  I  abjured  the  part  I  had  taken ;  I  re- 
solved to  betray  the  slaughterers,  and  not  their  victim. 
I  did  wrong  to  play  with  men,  with  their  lives,  their 
principles,  with  myself,  like  a  thoughtless  girl  who  sees 
only  sentiments  in  this  life.  I  believed  you  loved  me  ; 
I  let  myself  cling  to  the  hope  that  my  life  might  begin 
anew  ;  but  all  things  have  revealed  my  past,  —  even  I 
myself,  perhaps,  for  you  must  have  distrusted  a  woman 
so  passionate  as  you  have  found  me.  Alas  !  is  there 
no  excuse  for  my  love  and  my  deception  ?  My  life  was 
like  a  troubled  sleep ;  I  woke  and  thought  myself  a 
girl ;    I  was  in  Alengon,  where  all  my  memories  WQV^ 


304  The  Chouans. 

pure  and  chaste.  1  had  the  mad  simplicity  to  think 
that  love  would  baptize  me  into  innocence.  For  a 
moment  I  thought  myself  pure,  for  I  had  never  loved. 
But  last  night  your  passion  seemed  to  me  true,  and  a 
voice  cried  to  me,  '  Do  not  deceive  him.'  Monsieur  le 
marquis,"  she  said,  in  a  guttural  voice  which  haughtily 
challenged  condemnation,  "know  this;  I  am  a  dishon- 
ored creature,  unworthy  of  you.  From  this  hour  I 
accept  m}'  fate  as  a  lost  woman.  I  am  weary  of  pl&y- 
ing  a  part,  —  the  part  of  a  woman  to  whom  you  had 
brought  back  the  sanctities  of  her  soul.  Virtue  is  a 
burden  to  me.  I  should  despise  30U  if  you  were  weak 
enough  to  marry  me.  The  Comte  de  Bauvan  might 
commit  that  folly,  but  you  —  you  must  be  worthy  of 
your  future  and  leave  me  without  regret.  A  courtesan 
is  too  exacting ;  I  should  not  love  you  like  the  simple, 
artless  girl  who  felt  for  a  moment  the  delightful  hope 
of  being  your  companion,  of  making  you  happy,  of 
doing  you  honor,  of  becoming  a  noble  wife.  But  I 
gather  from  that  futile  hope  the  courage  to  return  to  a 
life  of  vice  and  infamy,  that  I  may  put  an  eternal  bar- 
rier between  us.  I  sacrifice  both  honor  and  fortune  to 
you.  The  pride  I  take  in  that  sacrifice  will  support  me 
in  my  wretchedness,  —  fate  may  dispose  of  me  as  it  will. 
I  will  never  betray  you.  I  shall  return  to  Paris.  There 
your  name  will  be  to  me  a  part  of  myself,  and  the  glory 
you  win  will  console  m}'  grief.  As  for  3'ou,  you  are  a 
man,  and  you  will  forget  me.     Farewell." 

She  darted  away  in  the  direction  of  the  gorges  of 
Saint-Sulpice,  and  disappeared  before  the  marquis  could 
rise  to  detain  her.  But  she  came  back  unseen,  hid  her- 
self in  a  cavity  of  the  rocks,  and  examined  the  young 
man  with  a  curiosity  mingled  with   doubt.     Presently 


The   Chouans.  305 

she  saw  him  walking  like  a  man  overwhelmed,  without 
seemins:  to  know  where  he  went. 

"Can  he  be  weak?"  she  thought,  when  he  had  dis- 
appeared, and  she  felt  she  was  parted  from  him.  "Will 
he  understand  me?"  She  quivered.  Then  she  turned 
and  went  rapidlj^  towards  Fougeres,  as  though  she 
feared  the  marquis  might  follow  her  into  the  town, 
where  certain  death  awaited  him. 

*•  Francine,  what  did  he  sa}^  to  3'ou  ? "  she  asked, 
when  the  faithful  girl  rejoined  her. 

"Ah!  Marie,  how  I  pitied  him.  You  great  ladies 
stab  a  man  with  your  tongues." 

"  How  did  he  seem  when  he  came  up  to  3'ou?" 

"  As  if  he  saw  me  not  at  all !  Oh,  Marie,  he  loves 
you ! " 

**  Yes,  he  loves  me,  or  he  does  not  love  me  —  there 
is  heaven  or  hell  for  me  in  that,"  she  answered.  "  Be- 
tween the  two  extremes  there  is  no  spot  where  I  can 
set  my  foot." 

After  thus  carrying  out  her  resolution,  Marie  gave 
way  to  grief,  and  her  face,  beautified  till  then  by 
these  conflicting  sentiments,  changed  for  the  worse  so 
rapidly  that  in  a  single  day,  during  which  she  floated 
incessantly  between  hope  and  despair,  she  lost  the  glow 
of  beauty,  and  the  freshness  which  has  its  source  in 
the  absence  of  passion  or  the  ardor  of  joy.  Anxious 
to  ascertain  the  result  of  her  mad  enterprise,  Hulot  and 
Corentin  came  to  see  her  soon  after  her  return.  She 
received  them  smiling. 

"Well,"  she  said  to  the  commandant,  whose  care- 
worn face  had  a  questioning  expression,  "  the  fox  is 
coming  within  range  of  your  guns ;  you  will  soon  have 
a  glorious  triumph  over  him." 

20 


306  The   Chouans. 

"  What  happened  ?  "  asked  Corentiu,  carelessly,  giving 
Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  one  of  those  oblique  glances 
with  which  diplomatists  of  his  class  spy  on  thought. 

"Ah!"  she  said,  "the  Gars  is  more  in  love  than 
ever ;  I  made  him  come  with  me  to  the  gates  of 
Fougeres." 

"  Your  power  seems  to  have  stopped  there,"  remarked 
Corentin  ;  ' '  the  fears  of  3^our  ci-devant  are  greater  than 
the  love  you  inspire." 

"  You  judge  him  b}^  yourself,"  she  replied,  with  a 
contemptuous  look. 

"Well,  then,"  said  he,  unmoved,  "why  did  you  not 
bring  him  here  to  your  own  house?" 

"  Commandant,"  she  said  to  Hulot,  with  a  coaxing 
smile,  "  if  he  really  loves  me,  would  you  blame  me  for 
saving  his  life  and  getting  him  to  leave  France?  " 

The  old  soldier  came  quickl}'  up  to  her.  took  her 
hand,  and  kissed  it  with  a  sort  of  enthusiasm.  Then  he 
looked  at  her  fixedly  and  said  in  a  gloomy  tone : 
"  You  forget  my  two  friends  and  ni}'  sixty-three  men." 

"  Ah,  commandant,"  she  cried,  with  all  the  naivete  of 
passion,  ''  he  was  not  accountable  for  that ;  he  was 
deceived  by  a  bad  woman,  Charette's  mistress,  who 
would,  I  do  believe,  drink  the  blood  of  the  Blues." 

"  Come,  Marie,"  said  Corentin,  "  don't  tease  the 
commandant ;  he  does  not  understand  such  jokes." 

"Hold  your  tongue,"  she  answered,  "and  remember 
that  the  day  when  3'ou  displease  me  too  much  will  have 
no  morrow  for  you." 

"  I  see,  mademoiselle,"  said  Hulot,  without  bitter- 
ness, "  that  I  must  prepare  for  a  fight." 

'•  You  are  not  strong  enough,  my  dear  colonel.  I  saw 
more  than  six  thousand  men  at  Saint-James,  —  regular 


The   Ohouans.  307 

troops,  artillery,  and  English  officers.  But  they  cannot 
do  much  unless  he  leads  them  ?  I  agree  with  Fouche, 
his  presence  is  the  head  and  front  of  everything." 

"Are  we  to  get  his  head?  —  that's  the  point,"  said 
Corentin,  impatiently. 

*^I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  carelessly. 

"  P^nglish  officers!"  cried  Hulot,  angrily,  "that's  all 
that  was  wanting  to  make  a  regular  brigand  of  him. 
Ha  !  ha  !  I  '11  give  him  English,  I  will !  " 

"It  seems  to  me,  citizen-diplomat,"  said  Hulot  to 
Corentin,  after  the  two  had  taken  leave  and  were  at 
some  distance  from  the  house,  •'  that  you  allow  that 
girl  to  send  you  to  the  right-about  when  she  pleases." 

"It  is  quite  natural  for  you,  commandant,"  replied 
Corentin,  with  a  thoughtful  air,  "to  see  .nothing  but 
fiojhting  in  what  she  said  to  us.  You  soldiers  never 
seem  to  know  there  are  various  ways  of  making  war. 
To  use  the  passions  of  men  and  women  like  wires  to  be 
pulled  for  the  benefit  of  the  State  ;  to  keep  the  running- 
gear  of  the  great  machine  we  call  government  in  good 
order,  and  fasten  to  it  the  desires  of  human  nature, 
like  baited  traps  which  it  is  fun  to  watch,  —  I  call  that 
creating  a  world,  like  God,  and  putting  ourselves  at 
the  centre  of  it !  " 

"  You  will  plea.se  allow  me  to  prefer  my  calling  to 
yours,"  said  the  soldier,  curtly,  "You  can  do  as  you 
like  with  your  running-gear ;  I  recognize  no  authorit}' 
but  that  of  the  minister  of  war.  I  have  my  orders  ;  I 
shall  take  the  field  with  veterans  who  don't  skulk,  and 
face  an  enemy  3'ou  want  to  catch  behind." 

"  Oh,  you  can  fight  if  you  want  to,"  replied  Corentin. 
"  From  what  that  girl  has  dropped,  close-mouthed  as 
you  think  she  is,  I  can  tell   you  that  you'll  have  to 


308  ■  The   Chouans. 

skirmish  about,  and  I  mj-self  will  gi\e  3'ou  the  pleasure 
of  an  interview  with  the  Gars  before  long." 

"  How  so?"  asked  Hulot,  moving  back  a  step  to  get 
a  better  view  of  this  strange  individual. 

"Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  is  in  love  with  him," 
replied  Corentin,  in  a  thick  voice,  "and  perhaps  he 
loves  her.  A  marquis,  a  knight  of  Saint-Louis,  3'oung, 
brilliant,  perhaps  rich,  —  what  a  list  of  temptations  !  She 
would  be  foolish  indeed  not  to  look  after  her  own  in- 
terests and  trj'  to  marr^*  him  rather  than  betray  him. 
The  girl  is  attempting  to  fool  us.  But  I  saw  hesitation 
in  her  eyes.  They  probably  have  a  rendezvous ;  per- 
haps they  've  met  already.  Well,  to-morrow  I  shall 
have  him  by  the  forelock.  Yesterday  he  was  nothing 
more  than  the  enemy  of  the  Republic,  to-day  he  is 
mine ;  and  I  tell  you  this,  everj'  man  who  has  been  so 
rash  as  to  come  between  that  girl  and  me  has  died  upon 
the  scaffold." 

So  saying,  Corentin  dropped  into  a  revery  which  hin- 
dered him  from  observing  the  disgust  on  the  face  of  the 
honest  soldier  as  he  discovered  the  depths  of  this  in- 
trigue, and  the  mechanism  of  the  means  employed  by 
Fouche.  Hulot  resolved  on  the  spot  to  thwart  Corentin 
in  every  way  that  did  not  conflict  essentially  with  the 
success  of  the  government,  and  to  give  the  Gars  a  fair 
chance  of  dying  honorably,  sword  in  hand,  before  he 
could  fall  a  prey  to  the  executioner,  for  whom  this 
agent  of  the  detective  police  acknowledged  himself  the 
purveyor. 

"If  the  First  Consul  would  listen  tome,"  thought 
Hulot,  as  he  turned  his  back  on  Corentin,  "he  would 
leave  those  foxes  to  fight  aristocrats,  and  send  his 
soldiers  on  other  business." 


The   Chouans.  309 

Corentin  looked  coldl}-  after  the  old  soldier,  whose 
face  had  brightened  at  the  resolve,  and  his  eyes  gleamed 
with  a  sardonic  expression,  which  showed  the  mental 
superiority  of  this  subaltern  Machiavelli. 

"  Give  an  ell  of  blue  cloth  to  those  fellows,  and  hang 
a  bit  of  iron  at  their  waists,"  he  said  to  himself,  ••  and 
they  '11  think  there 's  but  one  way  to  kill  people." 
Then,  after  walking  up  and  down  awhile  very  slowly, 
he  exclaimed  suddenly,  "  Yes,  the  time  has  come,  that 
woman  shall  be  mine  !  P'or  five  years  I  've  been  draw- 
ing the  net  round  her,  and  I  have  her  now ;  with  her, 
I  can  be  a  greater  man  in  the  government  than  Fouche 
himself.  Yes,  if  she  loses  the  onh'  man  she  has  ever 
loved,  grief  will  give  her  to  me,  body  and  soul ;  but  1 
must  be  on  the  watch  night  and  day." 

A  few  moments  later  the  pale  face  of  this  man  might 
have  been  seen  through  the  window  of  a  house,  from 
which  he  could  observe  all  who  entered  the  cul-de-sac 
formed  by  the  line  of  houses  running  parallel  with 
Saint-Leonard,  one  of  those  houses  being  that  now 
occupied  by  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil.  With  the 
patience  of  a  cat  watching  a  mouse  Corentin  was  there 
in  the  same  place  on  the  following  morning,  attentive  to 
tlie  slightest  noise,  and  subjecting  the  passers-by  to  the 
closest  examination.  The  day  that  was  now  beginning 
was  a  market  da3^  Although  in  these  calamitous  times 
the  peasants  rarely  risked  themselves  in  the  towns, 
Corentin  presentl3'  noticed  a  small  man  with  a  gloom}' 
face,  wrapped  in  a  goatskin,  and  carrying  on  his  arm 
a  small  flat  basket ;  he  was  making  his  way  in  the 
direction  of  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil's  house,  casting 
careless  glances  about  him.  Corentin  watched  him 
enter  the   house ;    tlien   he   ran   down   into   the   street, 


310  The   Chouans. 

meaning  to  waylay  the  man  as  he  left ;  but  on  second 
thoughts  it  occurred  to  him  that  if  he  called  unex- 
pectedly on  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  he  might  surprise 
by  a  single  glance  the  secret  that  was  hidden  in  the 
basket  of  the  emissar}'.  Besides,  he  had  already  learned 
that  it  was  impossible  to  extract  anything  from  the 
inscrutable  answers  of  Bretons  and  Normans. 

''  Galope-Chopine  !  "  cried  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil, 
whenFrancine  brought  the  man  to  her.  "  Does  he  love 
me?  "  she  murmured  to  herself,  in  a  low  voice. 

The  instinctive  hope  sent  a  brilliant  color  to  her 
cheeks  and  joy  into  her  heart.  Galope-Chopine  looked 
alternately'  from  the  mistress  to  the  maid  with  evident 
distrust  of  the  latter  ;  but  a  sign  from  Mademoiselle  de 
Verneuil  reassured  him. 

*'  Madame/'  he  said,  "  about  two  o'clock  he  will  be 
at  my  house  waiting  for  you." 

Emotion  prevented  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  from 
giving  any  other  reply  than  a  movement  of  her  head, 
but  the  man  understood  her  meaning.  At  that  moment 
Corentin's  step  was  heard  in  the  adjoining  room,  but 
Galope-Chopine  showed  no  uneasiness,  though  Made- 
moiselle de  Verneuil's  look  and  shudder  warned  him  of 
danger,  and  as  soon  as  the  spy  had  entered  the  room 
the  Chouan  raised  his  voice  to  an  ear-splitting  tone. 

"  Ha,  ha !  "  he  said  to  Francine,  *'  I  tell  you  there  's 
Breton  butter  and  Breton  butter.  You  want  the  Gibarry 
kind,  and  you  won't  give  more  than  eleven  sous  a  pound  ; 
then  why  did  you  send  me  to  fetch  it?  It  is  good  butter 
that,"  he  added,  uncovering  the  basket  to  show  the  pats 
which  Barbette  had  made.  "  You  ought  to  be  fair,  my 
good  lady,  and  pay  one  sou  more." 

His  hollow  voice  betrayed  no  emotion,  and  his  green 


The   Chouans.  311 

eyes,  shaded  by  thick  gray  eyebrows,  bore  Corentin's 
piercing  glance  without  flinching. 

"Nonsense,  my  good  man,  you  are  not  here  to  sell 
butter ;  you  are  talking  to  a  lady  who  never  bargained 
for  a  thing  in  her  life.  The  trade  you  run,  old  fellow, 
will  shorten  you  by  a  head  in  a  very  few  days  ; "  and 
Corentin,  with  a  friendly  tap  on  the  man's  shoulder, 
added,  "you  can't  keep  up  being  a  spy  of  the  Blues 
and  a  spy  of  the  Chouans  very  long." 

Galope-Chopine  needed  all  his  presence  of  mind  to 
subdue  his  rage,  and  not  deny  the  accusation  which  his 
avarice  had  made  a  just  one.  He  contented  himself 
with'  saying :  — 

"  Monsieur  is  making  game  of  me/* 

Corentin  turned  his  back  on  the  Chouan,  but,  while 
bowing  to  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  whose  heart  stood 
still,  he  watched  him  in  the  mirror  behind  her.  Galope- 
Chopine,  unaware  of  this,  gave  a  glance  at  Francine,  to 
which  she  replied  by  pointing  to  the  door,  and  saying, 
"  Come  with  me,  my  man,  and  we  will  settle  the  matter 
between  us." 

Nothing  escaped  Corentin,  neither  the  fear  which  Ma- 
demoiselle de  Verneuil  could  not  conceal  under  a  smile, 
nor  her  color  and  the  contraction  of  her  features,  nor 
the  Chouan 's  sign  and  Francine's  reph' ;  he  had  seen 
all.  Convinced  that  Galope-Chopine  was  sent  by  the 
marquis,  he  caught  the  man  by  the  long  hairs  of  his 
goatskin  as  he  was  leaving  the  room,  turned  him  round 
to  face  him,  and  said  with  a  keen  look  :  "  Where  do 
you  live,  my  man  ?  I  want  butter,  too." 

"My  good  monsieur,"  said  the  Chouan,  "all  Fou- 
geres  knows  where  I  live.     I  am  —  " 

"Corentin!"  exclaimed  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil, 


312  The   Chouans. 

interrupting  Galope-Chopine.  *'  Why  do  yon  come 
here  at  this  time  of  day  ?  I  am  scarcel}-  dressed.  Let 
that  peasant  alone  ;  he  does  not  understand  your  tricks 
any  more  than  I  understand  the  motive  of  them.  You 
can  go,  m}'  man." 

Galope-Chopine  hesitated  for  a  moment.  The  inde- 
cision, real  or  feigned,  of  the  poor  devil,  who  knew  not 
which  to  obey,  deceived  even  Corentin ;  but  the 
Chouan,  finally,  after  an  imperative  gesture  from  the 
lady,  left  the  room  with  a  dragging  step.  Mademoi- 
selle de  Verneuil  and  Corentin  looked  at  each  other  in 
silence.  This  time  Marie's  limpid  eyes  could  not  en- 
dure the  gleam  of  cruel  fire  in  the  man's  look.  *^he 
resolute  manner  in  which  the  spy  had  forced  his  way 
into  her  room,  an  expression  on  his  face  which  Marie 
had  never  seen  there  before,  the  deadened  tones  of  his 
shrill  voice,  his  whole  demeanor,  —  all  these  things 
alarmed  her ;  she  felt  that  a  secret  struggle  was  about 
to  take  place  between  them,  and  that  he  meant  to  em- 
ploy against  her  all  the  powers  of  his  evil  influence. 
But  though  she  had  at  this  moment  a  full  and  distinct 
view  of  the  gulf  into  which  she  was  plunging,  she 
gathered  strength  from  her  love  to  shake  off  the  icy 
chill  of  these  presentiments. 

*' Corentin,"  she  said,  with  a  sort  of  gayety,  "  I  hope 
3^ou  are  going  to  let  me  make  my  toilet?" 

"  Marie,"  he  said,  —  ''  yes,  permit  me  to  call  you  so, 
—  you  don't  yet  know  me.  Listen  ;  a  much  less  saga- 
cious man  than  I  would  see  your  love  for  the  Marquis  de 
Montauran.  I  have  several  times  offered  you  my  heart 
and  hand.  You  have  never  thought  me  worthy  of  you  ; 
and  perhaps  you  are  right.  But  however  much  you 
may  feel  yourself  too  high,  too  beautiful,  too  superior 


The   Chouaus.  313 

for  me,  I  can  compel  you  to  come  down  to  m}-  level. 
My  ambition  and  my  maxims  have  given  you  a  low 
opinion  of  me ;  frankly,  you  are  mistaken.  Men  are 
not  worth  even  what  1  rate  them  at,  and  that  is  next 
to  nothing.  I  shall  certainly  attain  a  position  which  will 
gratify  your  pride.  Who  will  ever  love  you  better,  or 
make  you  more  absolutely  mistress  of  yourself  and  of 
him,  than  the  man  who  has  loved  you  now  for  five 
years?  Though  I  run  the  risk  of  exciting  your  sus- 
picions, —  for  you  cannot  conceive  that  any  one  should 
renounce  an  idolized  woman  out  of  excessive  love,  — 
I  will  now  prove  to  you  the  unselfishness  of  my  pas- 
sion. Don't  shake  your  head.  If  the  marquis  loves 
you,  marry  him  ;  but  before  you  do  so,  make  sure  of 
ills  sincerity.  I  could  not  endure  to  see  3'ou  deceived, 
for  I  do  prefer  your  happiness  to  my  own.  My  resolu- 
tion may  surprise  you  ;  lay  it  to  the  prudence  of  a  man 
who  is  not  so  great  a  fool  as  to  wish  to  possess  a  woman 
against  her  will.  I  blame  myself,  not  you,  for  the  fail- 
ure of  my  efforts  to  win  you.  I  h()i)«.'d  to  do  so  by 
submission  and  devotion,  for  I  have  long,  as  j^ou  well 
know,  tried  to  make  you  happy  according  to  my  lights ; 
l)ut  you  have  never  in  any  way  rewarded  me." 

"  I  have  suffered  you  to  be  near  me,"  she  said, 
haughtily. 

"  Add  that  you  regret  it." 

"  After  involving  me  in  this  infamous  enterprise,  do 
you  think  that  I  have  any  thanks  to  give  you?  " 

"  When  I  proposed  to  you  an  enterprise  which  was 
not  exempt  from  blame  to  timid  minds,"  he  replied,  au- 
daciousl}',  "  I  had  only  your  own  prosperity  in  view. 
As  for  me,  whether  I  succeed  or  fail,  I  can  make  all 
results  further  my  ends.     If  you  marry  Montauran,  1 


314  The   Chouans. 

shall  be  delighted  to  serve  the  Bourbons  in  Paris,  where 
I  am  already  a  member  of  the  Clioh}'  club.  Now,  if 
circumstances  were  to  put  me  in  correspondence  with 
the  princes  I  should  abandon  the  interests  of  the  Re- 
public, which  is  already  on  its  last  legs.  General  Bona- 
parte is  much  too  able  a  man  not  to  know  that  he  can't 
be  in  England  and  in  Itah'  at  the  same  time,  and  that  is 
how  the  Republic  is  about  to  fall.  I  have  no  doubt  he 
made  the  18th  Brumaire  to  obtain  greater  advantages 
over  the  Bourbons  when  it  came  to  treating  with  them. 
He  is  a  long-headed  fellow,  and  very  keen  ;  but  the 
politicians  will  get  the  better  of  him  on  their  own 
ground.  The  betrayal  of  France  is  another  scruple 
which  men  of  superiority  leave  to  fools.  I  won't  con- 
ceal from  you  that  I  have  come  here  with  the  necessary 
authority  to  open  negotiations  with  the  Chouans,  or  to 
further  their  destruction,  as  the  case  ma}-  be ;  for 
Fouch6,  my  patron,  is  deep ;  he  has  always  played  a 
double  part ;  during  the  Terror  he  was  as  much  for 
Robespierre  as  for  Danton  —  " 

"  Whom  you  basely  abandoned,"  she  said. 

"Nonsense;  he  is  dead,  —  forget  him,"  replied  Co- 
rentin.  "  Come,  speak  honestly  to  me  ;  I  have  set  you 
the  example.  Old  Hulot  is  deeper  than  he  looks ;  if 
you  want  to  escape  his  vigilance,  1  can  help  you.  Re- 
member that  he  holds  all  the  valleys  and  will  instantly 
detect  a  rendezvous.  If  you  make  one  in  Fougeres, 
under  his  very  eyes,  you  are  at  the  mercy  of  his  pa- 
trols. See  how  quickly  he  knew  that  this  Chouan  had 
entered  your  house.  His  military  sagacity  will  show 
him  that  your  movements  betray  those  of  the  Gars  — 
if  Montauran  loves  you." 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil   had    never  listened   to  a 


The   Chouans.  315 

more  affectionate  voice  ;  Corentin  certainly  seemed  sin- 
cere, and  spoke  confidingly'.  Tlie  poor  girl's  heart  was 
so  open  to  generous  impressions  that  she  was  on  the 
point  of  betraying  her  secret  to  the  serpent  who  had 
her  in  his  folds,  when  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  had 
no  proof  beyond  his  own  words  of  his  sincerity,  and 
she  felt  no  scruple  in  blinding  him. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "you  are  right,  Corentin.  I  do 
love  the  marquis,  but  he  does  not  love  me  —  at  least,  I 
fear  so ;  I  can't  help  fearing  that  the  appointment  he 
wishes  me  to  make  with  him  is  a  trap." 

"  But  you  said  yesterday  that  he  came  as  far  as 
Fougeres  with  you,"  returned  Corentin.  "If  he  had 
meant  to  do  you  bodily  harm  you  would  n't  be  here 
now." 

*'  You  've  a  cold  heart,  Corentin.  You  can  draw 
shrewd  conclusions  as  to  the  ordinary'  events  of  human 
life,  but  not  on  those  of  a  passion.  Perhaps  that  is 
why  you  inspire  me  with  such  repulsion.  As  you  are 
so  clear-sighted,  you  may  be  able  to  tell  me  why  a  man 
from  whom  I  separated  myself  violently  two  days  ago 
now  wishes  me  to  meet  him  in  a  house  at  Florigny  on 
the  road  to  Mayenne." 

At  this  avowal,  which  seemed  to  escape  her  with  a 
recklessness  that  was  not  unnatural  in  so  passionate  a 
creature,  Corentin  flushed,  for  he  was  still  young ;  but 
he  gave  her  a  sidelong  penetrating  look,  trying  to 
search  her  soul.  The  girl's  artlessness  was  so  well 
played,  however,  that  she  deceived  the  spy,  and  he  an- 
swered with  crafty  good-humor,  "  Shall  I  accompany 
you  at  a  distance?  I  can  take  a  few  soldiers  with  me, 
and  be  ready  to  help  and  obey  you." 

"Very  good,"  she  said;  "but  promise  me,  on  your 


316  The   Chouam. 

honor,  —  no,  I  don't  believe  in  it ;  by  3'our  salvutiou, 
—  but  you  don't  believe  in  God  ;  by  3'our  soul,  — but  I 
don't  suppose  you  have  any  !  what  pledge  can  j'ou  give 
me  of  your  fidelity  ?  and  yet  you  expect  me  to  trust 
3'ou,  and  put  more  than  my  life  —  my  love,  my  ven- 
geance —  into  your  hands." 

The  slight  smile  which  crossed  the  pallid  lips  of  the 
sp3'  showed  Madeuioiselle  de  Verneuil  the  danger  she 
had  just  escaped.  The  man,  whose  nostrils  contracted 
instead  of  dilating,  took  the  hand  of  his  victim,  kissed 
it  with  every  mark  of  the  deepest  respect,  and  left  the 
room  with  a  bow  that  was  not  devoid  of  grace. 

Three  hours  after  this  scene  Mademoiselle  de  Ver- 
neuil, who  feared  the  man's  return,  left  the  town  fur- 
tively by  the  Porte  Saint-Leonard,  and  made  her  wa3' 
through  the  labyrinth  of  paths  to  the  cottage  of  Galope- 
Chopine,  led  by  the  dream  of  at  last  finding  happiness, 
and  also  by  the  purpose  of  saving  her  lover  from  the 
danger  that  threatened  him. 

During  this  time  Corentin  had  gone  to  find  the  com- 
mandant. He  had  some  diflftculty  in  recognizing  Hulot 
when  he  found  him  in  a  little  square,  where  he  was  bus3' 
with  certain  military  preparations.  The  brave  veteran 
had  made  a  sacrifice,  the  full  merit  of  which  it  may  be 
difficult  to  appreciate.  His  queue  and  his  moustache 
were  cut  oflT,  and  his  hair  had  a  sprinkling  of  powder. 
He  had  changed  his  uniform  for  a  goatskin,  wore  hob- 
nailed shoes,  a  belt  full  of  pistols,  and  carried  a  heavy 
carbine.  In  this  costume  he  was  reviewing  about  two 
hundred  of  the  natives  of  Fougeres,  all  in  the  same  kind 
of  dress,  which  was  fitted  to  deceive  the  eye  of  the  most 
practised  Chouan.  The  warlike  spirit  of  the  little  town 
and  the  Breton  character  were  fully  displayed  in  this 


The   Chonans.  317 

scene,  which  was  not  at  all  uncommon.  Here  and 
there  a  few  mothers- and  sisters  were  bringing  to  their 
sons  and  brothers  gourds  tilled  with  brandy,  or  for- 
gotten pistols.  Several  old  men  were  examining  into 
the  number  and  condition  of  the  cartridges  of  these 
young  national  guards  dressed  in  the  guise  of  Chouans, 
whose  gayety  was  more  in  keeping  with  a  hunting  ex- 
pedition than  the  dangerous  duty  they  were  under- 
taking. To  them,  such  encounters  with  Chouannerie, 
where  the  Breton  of  the  town  fought  the  Breton  of  the 
country  district,  had  taken  the  place  of  the  old  chiv- 
alric  tournaments.  This  patriotic  enthusiasm  may  pos- 
sibl}^  have  been  connected  with  certain  purchases  of  the 
"  national  domain."  Still,  the  benefits  of  the  Revolu- 
tion which  were  better  understood  and  appreciated  in 
the  towns,  party  spirit,  and  a  certain  national  delight 
in  war,  had  a  great  deal  to  do  with  their  ardor. 

Hulot,  much  gratified,  was  going  through  the  ranks 
and  getting  information  from  Gudin,  on  whom  he  was 
now  bestowing  the  confidence  and  good-will  he  had 
formerly  shown  to  Merle  and  Gerard.  A  number  of 
the  inhabitants  stood  about  watching  the  preparations, 
and  comparing  the  conduct  of  their  tumultuous  contin- 
gent with  the  regulars  of  Hulot's  brigade.  Motionless 
and  silent  the  Blues  were  awaiting,  under  control  of 
their  officers,  the  orders  of  the  commandant,  whose 
figure  they  followed  with  their  eyes  as  he  passed  from 
rank  to  rank  of  the  contingent.  When  Corentin  came 
near  the  old  warrior  he  could  not  help  smiling  at  the 
change  which  had  taken  place  in  him.  He  looked  like 
a  portrait  that  has  little  or  no  resemblance  to  the 
original. 

••  What 's  all  this?  "  asked  Corentin. 


318  The   Chouans. 

'•  Come  with  us  under  fire,  and  you  '11  find  out," 
replied  Hulot. 

"  Oh  !   I  'm  not  a  Fougeres  man,"  said  Corentin. 

"  Eas3'  to  see  that,  citizen,"  retorted  Gudin. 

A  few  contemptuous  laughs  came  from  the  nearest 
ranks. 

''Do  you  think,''  said  Corentin,  sharply,  "that  the 
only  way  to  serve  France  is  with  ba3'onets?  " 

Then  he  turned  his  back  to  the  laughers,  and  asked 
a  woman  beside  him  if  she  knew  the  object  of  the 
expedition. 

'•  Hey  1  my  good  man,  the  Chouans  are  at  Florignj'. 
The}'  sa^'  there  are  more  than  three  thousand,  and  they 
are  coming  to  take  Fougeres." 

"P'lorigny?"  cried  Corentin,  turning  white:  "then 
the  rendezvous  is  not  there  !  Is  Florigny  on  the  road 
to  Mayenne  ?  "  he  asked. 

"There  are  not  two  Florign3'S,"  replied  the  woman, 
pointing  in  the  direction  of  the  summit  of  La  Pelerine. 

"Are  you  going  in  search  of  the  Marquis  de  Mon- 
tauran?"  said  Corentin  to  Hulot. 

"  Perhaps  1  am,"  answered  the  commandant,  curtl}'. 

''  He  is  not  at  Florigny,"  said  Corentin.  "Send  your 
troops  there  by  all  means ;  but  keep  a  few  of  those 
imitation  Chouans  of  yours  with  you,  and  wait  for  me." 

"He  is  too  malignant  not  to  know  what  he's 
about,"  thought  Hulot  as  Corentin  made  off  rapidl}', 
"  he  's  the  king  of  spies." 

Hulot  ordered  the  battalion  to  start.  The  republican 
soldiers  marched  without  drums  and  silently  though  the 
narrow  suburb  which  led  to  the  Mayenne  high-road, 
forming  a  blue  and  red  line  among  the  trees  and 
houses.      The    disguised    guard   followed    them  ;    but 


The   Ohouans.  319 

Hulot,  detaining  Gudiii  and  about  a  score  of  the  smart- 
est^young  fellows  of  the  town,  remained  in  the  little 
square,  awaiting  Corentin,  whose  mysterious  manner 
had  piqued  his  curiosity.  Francine  herself  told  the 
astute  spy,  whose  suspicions  she  changed  into  certainty, 
of  iier  mistress's  departure.  Inquiring  of  the  post  guard 
at  the  Porte  Saint- Leonard,  he  learned  that  Mademoi- 
selle de  Verneuil  had  passed  tliat  wa}'.  Rushing  to  the 
Promenade,  he  was,  unfortunately,  in  time  to  see  her 
movements.  Though  she  was  wearing  a  green  dress 
and  hood,  to  be  less  easily  distinguished,  the  rapiditj- 
of  her  almost  distracted  step  enabled  him  to  follow 
her  with  his  eye  through  the  leafless  hedges,  and  to 
guess  the  point  towards  which  she  was  hurrying. 

"•  Ha  !  "  he  cried,  "  you  said  you  were  going  to  Flo- 
rigny,  but  you  are  in  the  valley  of  Gibarry  !  I  am  a 
fool,  she  has  tricked  me  !  No  matter,  I  can  light  my 
lamp  by  day  as  well  as  by  night." 

Corentin,  satisfied  that  he  knew  the  place  of  the 
lovers*  rendezvous,  returned  in  all  haste  to  the  little 
square,  which  Hulot,  resolved  not  to  wait  any  longer, 
was  just  quitting  to  rejoin  his  troops. 

"  Halt,  general !  "  he  cried  to  the  commandant,  who 
turned  round. 

He  then  told  Hulot  the  events  relating  to  the  marquis 
and  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  and  showed  him  the 
scheme  of  which  he  held  a  thread.  Hulot,  struck  by  his 
perspicacity,  seized  him  by  the  arm. 

"God's  thunder!  citizen,  j^ou  are  right,"  he  cried. 
"  The  brigands  are  making  a  false  attack  over  there  to 
keep  the  coast  clear ;  but  the  two  columns  I  sent  to 
scour  the  environs  between  Antrain  and  Vitre  have  not 
yet  returned,  so  we  shall  have  plenty  of  reinforcements 


320  The   Chouans. 

if  we  need  them  ;  and  I  dare  say  we  shall,  for  the  Gars 
is  not  such  a  fool  as  to  risk  his  life  without  a  b(jdy- 
guard  of  those  damned  owls.  Gudin,"  he  added,  ''go 
and  tell  Captain  Lebrun  that  he  must  rub  those  fellows' 
noses  at  Florigny  without  me,  and  come  back  30urself 
in  a  flash.  You  know  the  paths.  I  'II  wait  till  you 
return,  and  the?i  —  we  '11  avenge  those  murders  at  La 
Vivetiere.  Thunder!  how  he  runs,"  he  added,  seeing 
Gudin  disappear  as  if  b3'  magic.  "  Gerard  would  have 
loved  him." 

On  his  return  Gudin  found  Hulot's  little  band  in- 
creased in  numbers  by  the  arrival  of  several  soldiers 
taken  from  the  various  posts  in  the  town.  The  com- 
mandant ordered  him  to  choose  a  dozen  of  his  compa- 
triots who  could  best  counterfeit  the  Chouans,  and  take 
them  out  by  the  Porte  Saint-Leonard,  so  as  to  creep  round 
the  side  of  the  Saint-Sulpice  rocks  which  overlooks  the 
valle}'  of  Couesnon  and  on  which  was  the  hovel  of  Ga- 
lope-Chopine.  Hulot  himself  went  out  with  the  rest  of 
his  troop  by  the  Porte  Saint-Sulpice,  to  reach  the  sum- 
mit of  the  same  rocks,  where,  according  to  his  calcula- 
tions, he  ought  to  meet  the  men  under  Beau-Pied,  whom 
he  meant  to  use  as  a  line  of  sentinels  from  the  suburb 
of  Saint-Sulpice  to  the  Nid-aux-Crocs. 

Corentin,  satisfied  with  having  delivered  over  the  fate 
of  the  Gars  to  his  implacable  enemies,  went  with  all 
speed  to  the  Promenade,  so  as  to  follow  with  his  oyes 
the  military  arrangements  of  the  commandant.  He 
soon  saw  Gudin's  little  squad  issuing  from  the  val- 
le3'  of  the  Nancon  and  following  the  line  of  the  rocks 
to  the  great  valley,  while  Hulot,  creeping  round  the 
castle  of  Fougeres,  was  mounting  the  dangerous  path 
which  leads  to  the  summit  of  Saint-Sulpice.     Tlie  two 


The   Chouans.  321 

companies  were  therefore  advancing  on  parallel  lines. 
The  trees  and  shrubs,  draped  by  the  rich  arabesques 
of  the  hoarfrost,  threw  whitish  reflections  which  enabled 
the  watcher  to  see  the  gra}'  lines  of  the  squads  in  mo- 
tion. When  Hulot  reached  the  summit  of  the  rocks, 
he  detached  all  the  soldiers  in  uniform  from  his  main 
ho6y,  and  made  them  into  a  line  of  sentinels,  each  com- 
municating with  the  other,  the  first  with  Gudin,  the  last 
with  Hulot ;  so  that  no  shrub  could  escape  the  ba3'onets 
of  the  three  lines  which  were  now  in  a  position  to  hunt 
the  Gars  across  field  and  mountain. 

"  The  sly  old  wolf ! "  thought  Corentin,  as  the  shining 
muzzle  of  the  last  gun  disappeared  in  the  bushes.  "  The 
Gars  is  done  for.  If  Marie  had  only  betrayed  that 
damned  marquis,  she  and  I  would  have  been  united  in 
the  strongest  of  all  bonds  —  a  vile  deed.  But  she's 
mine,  in  any  case." 

The  twelve  3'oung  men  under  Gudin  soon  reached  the 
base  of  the  rocks  of  Saint-Sulpice.  Here  Gudin  him- 
self left  the  road  with  six  of  them,  jumping  the  stiff 
hedge  into  the  first  field  of  gorse  that  he  came  to,  while 
the  other  six  by  his  orders  did  the  same  on  the  other 
side  of  the  road.  Gudin  advanced  to  an  apple-tree 
which  happened  to  be  in  the  middle  of  the  field.  Hear- 
ing the  rustle  of  this  movement  through  the  gorse,  seven 
or  eight  men,  at  the  head  of  whom  was  Beau-Pied, 
hastily  hid  behind  some  chestnut- trees  which  topped 
the  bank  of  this  particular  field.  Gudin's  men  did  not 
see  them,  in  spite  of  the  white  reflections  of  the  hoar- 
frost and  their  own  practised  sight. 

"Hush!  here  they  are,"  said  Beau-Pied,  cautiousl}^ 
putting  out  his  head.  ' '  The  brigands  have  more  men 
than  we,  but  we  have  'em  at  the  muzzles  of  our  guns, 

21 


322  The  Chouans. 

and  we  mustn't  miss  them,  or,  by  the  Lord,  we  are  not 
fit  to  be  soldiers  of  the  pope." 

By  this  time  Gudin's  keen  eyes  had  discovered  a  few 
muzzles  pointing  through  the  branches  at  his  little  squad. 
Just  then  eight  voices  cried  in  derision,  "  Qui  vive  ?  "  and 
eight  shots  followed.  The  balls  whistled  round  Gudin 
and  his  men.  One  fell,  another  was  shot  in  the  arm. 
The  five  others  who  were  safe  and  sound  replied  with 
a  volley  and  the  cry,  "  Friends  !  "  Then  they  marched 
rapidly  on  their  assailants  so  as  to  reach  them  before 
they  had  time  to  reload. 

"  We  did  not  know  how  true  we  spoke,"  cried  Gudin, 
as  he  recognized  the  uniforms  and  the  battered  hats  of 
his  own  brigade.  "  Well,  we  behaved  like  Bretons,  and 
fought  before  explaining." 

The  other  men  were  stupefied  on  recognizing  the 
little  company. 

"  Who  the  devil  would  have  known  them  in  those 
goatskins?"  cried  Beau-Pied,  dismally. 

''It  is  a  misfortune,"  said  Gudin,  "but  we  are  all 
innocent  if  you  were  not  informed  of  the  sortie.  What 
are  3'ou  doing  here  ?  "  he  asked. 

"A  dozen  of  those  Chouans  are  amusing  themselves 
by  picking  us  off,  and  we  are  getting  away  as  best  we 
can,  like  poisoned  rats  ;  but  by  dint  of  scrambling  over 
these  hedges  and  rocks  —  may  the  lightning  blast  'em  ! 
—  our  compasses  have  got  so  rusty  we  are  forced  to  take 
a  rest.  I  think  those  brigands  are  now  somewhere  near 
the  old  hovel  where  you  see  that  smoke." 

"  Good  !  "  cried  Gudin.  "  You,"  he  added  to  Beau- 
Pied  and  his  men,  "  fall  back  towards  the  rocks  through 
the  fields,  and  join  the  line  of  sentinels  you  '11  find  there. 
You  can't  go  with  us,  because  you  are  in  uniform.     We 


The  Ohouans.  323 

mean  to  make  an  end  of  those  curs  now ;  the  Gars  is 
with  them.  I  can't  stop  to  tell  you  more.  To  the  right, 
march  !  and  don't  administer  any  more  shots  to  our  own 
goatskins ;  j'ou  '11  know  ours  by  their  cravats,  which 
thej'  twist  round  their  necks  and  don't  tie." 

Gudin  left  his  two  wounded  men  under  the  apple- 
tree,  and  marched  towards  Galope-Chopine's  cottage, 
which  Beau-Pied  had  pointed  out  to  him,  the  smoke 
from  the  chimney  serving  as  a  guide. 

While  the  young  officer  was  thus  closing  in  upon  the 
Chouans,  the  little  detachment  under  Hulot  had  reached 
a  point  still  parallel  with  that  at  which  Gudin  had 
arrived.  The  old  soldier,  at  the  head  of  his  men,  was 
silenth^  gliding  along  the  hedges  with  the  ardor  of  a 
3'oung  man  ;  he  jumped  them  from  time  to  time  actively 
enough,  casting  his  wary  eyes  to  the  heights  and  listen- 
ing with  the  ear  of  a  hunter  to  every  noise.  In  the  third 
field  to  which  he  came  to  he  found  a  woman  about  thirty' 
3^ears  old,  with  bent  back,  hoeing  the  ground  vigorously, 
while  a  small  boy  with  a  sickle  in  his  hand  was  knock- 
ing the  hoarfrost  from  the  rushes,  which  he  cut  and 
laid  in  a  heap.  At  the  noise  Hulot  made  in  jumping 
the  hedge,  the  boy  and  his  mother  raised  their  heads. 
Hulot  mistook  the  young  woman  for  an  old  one,  natur- 
ally enough.  Wrinkles,  coming  long  before  their  time, 
furrowed  her  face  and  neck ;  she  was  clothed  so 
grotesquely  in  a  worn-out  goatskin  that  if  it  had  not 
been  for  a  dirty  yellow  petticoat,  a  distinctive  mark  of 
sex,  Hulot  would  hardl}'  have  known  the  gender  she 
belonged  to  ;  for  the  meshes  of  her  long  black  hair  were 
twisted  up  and  hidden  by  a  red  worsted  cap.  The 
tatters  of  the  little  boy  did  not  cover  him,  but  left  his 
skin  exposed. 


324  The   Chouans. 

*'Ho!  old  woman!"  called  Hulot,  in  a  low  voice, 
approaching  her,  "  where  is  the  Gars?" 

The  twenty  men  who  accompanied  Hulot  now  jumped 
the  hedge. 

''  Hey  !  if  you  want  the  Gars  you  '11  have  to  go  back 
the  way  you  came,"  said  the  woman,  with  a  suspicious 
glance  at  the  troop. 

"  Did  I  ask  you  the  road  to  Foug^res,  old  carcass? '' 
said  Hulot,  roughly.  "  By  Saint-Anne  of  Auray,  have 
you  seen  the  Gars  go  b}'?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  replied  the  woman, 
bending  over  her  hoe. 

''  You  damned  garce,  do  you  want  to  have  us  eaten 
up  by  the  Blues  who  are  after  us  ?  " 

At  these  words  the  woman  raised  her  head  and  gave 
another  look  of  distrust  at  the  troop  as  she  replied, 
*'  How  can  the  Blues  be  after  you?  I  have  just  seen 
eight  or  ten  of  them  who  were  going  back  to  Fougeres 
by  the  lower  road." 

'*  One  would  think  she  meant  to  stab  us  with  that 
nose  of  hers ! "  cried  Hulot.  ^'  Here,  look,  you  old 
nanny-goat ! " 

And  he  showed  her  in  the  distance  three  or  four  of 
his  sentinels,  whose  hats,  guns,  and  uniforms  it  was 
easy  to  recognize. 

"  Are  you  going  to  let  those  fellows  cut  the  throats 
of  men  who  are  sent  by  Marche-a-Terre  to  protect  the 
Gars?"  he  cried,  angrily. 

"Ah,  beg  pardon,"  said  the  woman  ;  "  but  it  is  so 
easy  to  be  deceived.     What  parish  do  you  belong  to  ?  " 

"  Saint-Georges,"  replied  two  or  three  of  the  men,  in 
the  Breton  patois,  *'  and  we  are  dying  of  hunger." 

"Well,  there,"  said  the  woman;  *'do  you  see  that 


The   Chouans.  325 

sinoke  down  there  ?  that 's  my  house.  Follow  the  path 
to  the  right,  and  you  will  come  to  the  rock  above  it. 
Perhaps  you  '11  meet  my  man  on  the  way.  Galope- 
Chopine  is  sure  to  be  on  the  watch  to  warn  the  Gars. 
He  is  spending  the  day  in  our  house,"  she  said,  proudly, 
•'  as  you  seem  to  know." 

"  Thank  you,  my  good  woman,"  replied  Hulot. 
"Forward,  march!  God's  thunder!  we've  got  him," 
he  added,  speaking  to  his  men. 

The  detachment  followed  its  leader  at  a  quick  step 
through  the  path  pointed  out  to  them.  The  wife  of  Galope- 
Chopine  turned  pale  as  she  heard  the  un-Catholic  oath 
of  the  so-called  Chouan.  She  looked  at  the  gaiters  and 
goatskins  of  his  men,  then  she  caught  her  boy  in  her 
arms,  and  sat  down  on  the  ground,  saying,  ''  May  the 
holy  Virgin  of  Auray  and  the  ever  blessed  Saint-Labre 
have  pity  upon  us  !  Those  men  are  not  ours ;  their 
shoes  have  no  nails  in  them.  Run  down  by  the  lower 
road  and  warn  your  father ;  you  may  save  his  head," 
she  said  to  the  boy,  who  disappeared  like  a  deer  among 
the  bushes. 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  met  no  one  on  her  way, 
neither  Blues  nor  Chouans.  Seeing  the  column  of  blue 
smoke  which  was  rising  from  the  half-ruined  chimnej^ 
of  Galope-Chopine's  melancholy  dwelling,  her  heart  was 
seized  with  a  violent  palpitation,  the  rapid,  sonorous 
beating  of  which  rose  to  her  throat  in  waves.  She 
stopped,  rested  her  hand  against  a  tree,  and  watched 
the  smoke  which  was  serving  as  a  beacon  to  the  foes  as 
well  as  to  the  friends  of  the  young  chieftain.  Never 
had  she  felt  such  overwhelming  emotion. 

"  Ah !  I  love  him  tpo  much/'  she  said,  with  a  sort  of 


326  The  Chouans. 

despair.     "  To-day,  perhaps,  I  shall  no  longer  be  mis- 
tress of  myself —  " 

She  hurried  over  the  distance  which  separated  her 
from  the  cottage,  and  reached  the  courtyard,  the  filth  of 
which  was  now  stiffened  b}'  the  frost.  The  big  dog 
sprang  up  barking,  but  a  word  from  Galope-Chopine 
silenced  him  and  he  wagged  his  tail.  As  she  entered 
the  house  Marie  gave  a  look  which  included  everything. 
The  marquis  was  not  there.  She  breathed  more  freely, 
and  saw  with  pleasure  that  the  Chouan  had  taken  some 
pains  to  clean  the  dirty  and  only  room  in  his  hovel. 
He  now  took  his  duck-gun,  bowed  silently  to  his  guest 
and  left  the  house,  followed  b3'  his  dog.  Marie  went  to 
the  threshold  of  the  door  and  watched  him  as  he  took 
the  path  to  the  right  of  his  hut.  From  there  she 
could  overlook  a  series  of  fields,  the  curious  openings 
to  which  formed  a  perspective  of  gates ;  for  the  leafless 
trees  and  hedges  were  no  longer  a  barrier  to  a  full  view 
of  the  country.  When  the  Chouan's  broad  hat  was  out 
of  sight  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  turned  round  to  look 
for  the  church  at  Fougeres,  but  the  shed  concealed  it. 
She  cast  her  eyes  over  the  valle}'  of  the  Couesnon,  which 
lay  before  her  like  a  vast  sheet  of  muslin,  the  white- 
ness of  which  still  further  dulled  a  gray  sky  laden  with 
snow.  It  was  one  of  those  days  when  nature  seems 
dumb  and  noises  are  absorbed  b}-  the  atmosphere. 
Therefore,  though  the  Blues  and  their  contingent  were 
marching  through  the  country-  in  three  lines,  forming 
a  triangle  which  drew  together  as  the}'  neared  the  cot- 
tage, the  silence  was  so  profound  that  Mademoiselle  de 
Verneuil  was  overcome  by  a  presentiment  which  added 
a  sort  of  physical  pain  to  her  mental  torture.  Misfor- 
tune was  in  the  air. 


The   Ohouans.  327 

At  last,  in  a  spot  where  a  little  curtain  of  wood  closed 
the  perspective  of  gates,  she  saw  a  3"oung  man  jumping 
the  barriers  like  a  squirrel  and  running  with  astonishing 
rapidity.     "  It  is  he  !  "  she  thought. 

The  Gars  was  dressed  as  a  Chouan,  with  a  musket 
slung  from  his  shoulder  over  his  goatskin,  and  would 
have  been  quite  disguised  were  it  not  for  the  grace 
of  his  movements.  Marie  withdrew  hastily  into  the 
cottage,  obeying  one  of  those  instinctive  promptings 
which  are  as  little  explicable  as  fear  itself.  The 
30ung  man  was  soon  beside  her  before  the  chimney, 
where  a  bright  fire  was  burning.  Both  were  voiceless, 
fearing  to  look  at  each  other,  or  even  to  make  a  move- 
ment. One  and  the  same  hope  united  them,  the  same 
doubt ;  it  was  agony,  it  was  joy. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  at  last, 
in  a  trembling  voice,  "  your  safety  alone  has  brought 
me  here." 

' '  My  safety  !  "  he  said,  bitterly. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered;  "  so  long  as  I  stay  at  Fou- 
geres  your  life  is  threatened,  and  I  love  you  too  well 
not  to  leave  it.     I  go  to-night." 

"  Leave  me  !  ah,  dear  love,  I  shall  follow  you." 

"  Follow  me!  —the  Blues?  " 

"  Dear  Marie,  what  have  the  Blues  to  do  with  our 
love?" 

"  But  it  seems  impossible  that  3'ou  can  stay  with  me 
in  France,  and  still  more  impossible  that  3'ou  should 
leave  it  with  me." 

"  Is  there  an3'thing  impossible  to  those  who  love? " 

"Ah,  true!  true!  all  is  possible  —  have  I  not  the 
courage  to  resign  3'Ou,  for  3'our  sake." 

"  What!  3'OU  could  give  yourself  to  a  hateful  being 


328  The   Ohouans. 

whom  you  did  not  love,  and  jou  refuse  to  make  the  hap- 
piness of  a  man  who  adores  j-ou,  whose  life  you  fill, 
who  swears  to  be  yours,  and  yours  only.  Hear  me, 
Marie,  do  3'ou  love  me?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

*'  Then  be  mine." 

' '  You  forget  the  infamous  career  of  a  lost  woman  ;  I 
return  to  it,  I  leave  you  —  3'es,  that  I  may  not  bring 
upon  3'our  head  the  contempt  that  falls  on  mine.  With- 
out that  fear,  perhaps  —  " 

"  But  if  I  fear  nothing?" 

^^  Can  I  be  sure  of  that  ?  I  am  distrustful.  Who 
could  be  otherwise  in  a  position  like  mine?  If  the 
love  we  inspire  cannot  last  at  least  it  should  be  com- 
plete, and  help  us  to  bear  with  joy  the  injustice  of  the 
world.  But  you,  what  have  3'ou  done  for  me?  You 
desire  me.  Do  you  think  that  lifts  3'ou  above  other 
men?  Suppose  I  bade  3^ou  renounce  your  ideas,  your 
hopes,  your  king  (who  will,  perhaps,  laugh  when  he 
hears  3'ou  have  died  for  him,  while  I  would  die  for 
you  with  sacred  joy  ! )  ;  or  suppose  I  should  ask  you 
to  send  your  submission  to  the  First  Consul  so  that 
you  could  follow  me  to  Paris,  or  go  with  me  to 
America,  —  awaA^  from  the  world  where  all  is  vanity ; 
suppose  I  thus  tested  you,  to  know  if  you  loved  me  for 
nyself  as  at  this  moment  I  love  you?  To  say  all  in 
a  word,  if  I  wished,  instead  of  rising  to  your  level,  that 
you  should  fall  to  mine,  what  would  3'ou  do?" 

"  Hush,  Marie,  be  silent,  do  not  slander  3'ourself," 
he  cried.  "  Poor  child,  I  comprehend  3^00.  If  m3'  first 
desire  was  passion,  m3^  passion  now  is  love.  Dear  soul 
of  my  soul,  3'Ou  are  as  noble  as  your  name,  I  know  it, 
—  as  great  as  you  are  beautiful.     1  am  noble  enough,  I 


The   Chouans,  329 

feel  myself  great  enough  to  force  the  world  to  receive 
you.  Is  it  because  I  foresee  in  you  the  source  of  endless, 
incessant  pleasure,  or  because  I  find  in  your  soul  those 
precious  quaUties  which  make  a  man  forever  love  the 
one  woman?  I  do  not  know  the  cause,  but  this  I 
know  —  that  my  love  for  you  is  boundless.  I  know  I 
can  no  longer  Uve  without  you.  Yes,  life  would  be 
unbearable  unless  you  are  ever  with  me." 

"  Ever  with  you  !  " 

"  Ah!  Marie,  will  you  not  understand  me?" 

*'  You  think  to  flatter  me  by  the  ofter  of  your  hand 
and  name,"  she  said,  with  apparent  haughtiness,  but 
looking  fixedly  at  the  marquis  as  if  to  detect  his  inmost 
thought.  "  How  do  you  know  you  would  love  me  six 
months  hence  ?  and  then  what  would  be  my  fate  ?  No, 
a  mistress  is  the  only  woman  who  is  sure  of  a  man's 
heart ;  duty,  law,  society,  the  interests  of  children,  are 
poor  auxiliaries.  If  her  power  lasts  it  gives  her  joys 
and  flatteries  which  make  the  trials  of  life  endurable. 
But  to  be  your  wife  and  become  a  drag  upon  you,  — 
rather  than  that,  I  prefer  a  passing  love  and  a  true  one, 
though  death  and  misery  be  its  end.  Yes,  I  could  be 
a  virtuous  mother,  a  devoted  wife  ;  but  to  keep  those 
instincts  firmh'  in  a  woman's  soul  the  man  must  not 
marry  her  in  a  rush  of  passion.  Besides,  how  do  I  know 
that  you  will  please  me  to-morrow  ?  No,  I  will  not  bring 
evil  upon  you ;  I  leave  Brittan},"  she  said,  observing 
hesitation  in  his  eyes.  "  I  return  to  Fougeres  now, 
where  you  cannot  come  to  me  —  " 

"I  can!  and  if  to-morrow  you  see  smoke  on  the 
rocks  of  Saint-Sulpice  you  will  know  that  I  shall  be 
with  you  at  night,  your  lover,  your  husband,  —  what 
you  will  that  1  be  to  you  ;  I  brave  all  1 " 


330  The   Chouans. 

"Ah!  Alphonse,  3'ou  love  me  well,"  she  said,  pas- 
sionatel}',  "  to  risk  your  life  before  you  give  it  to  ma" 

He  did  not  answer ;  he  looked  at  her  and  her  eyes 
fell ;  but  he  read  in  her  ardent  face  a  passion  equal  to 
his  own,  and  he  held  out  his  arms  to  her.  A  sort  of 
madness  overcame  her,  and  she  let  herself  fall  softh* 
on  his  breast,  resolved  to  yield  to  him,  and  turn  this 
yielding  to  great  results,  —  staking  upon  it  her  future 
happiness,  which  would  become  more  certain  if  she  came 
victorious  from  this  crucial  test.  But  her  head  had 
scarcely  touched  her  lover's  shoulder  when  a  slight 
noise  was  heard  without.  She  tore  herself  from  his 
arms  as  if  suddenly  awakened,  and  sprang  from  tiie 
cottage.  Her  coolness  came  back  to  her,  and  she 
thought  of  the  situation, 

'^  He  might  have  accepted  me  and  scorned  me,"  she 
reflected.  "Ah!  if  I  could  think  that,  I  would  kill 
him.  But  not  yet !  "  she  added,  catching  sight  of  Beau- 
Pied,  to  whom  she  made  a  sign  which  the  soldier  was 
quick  to  understand.  He  turned  on  his  heel,  pretending 
to  have  seen  nothing.  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  re- 
entered the  cottage,  putting  her  finger  to  her  lips  to 
enjoin  silence. 

"They  are  there!"  she  whispered  in  a  frightened 
voice. 

"Who?" 

"  The  Blues." 

"  Ah  !  must  I  die  without  one  kiss  1 " 

"  Take  it,"  she  said. 

He  caught  her  to  him,  cold  and  unresisting,  and  gath- 
ered from  her  lips  a  kiss  of  horror  and  of  joy,  for  while 
it  was  the  first,  it  might  also  be  the  last.  Then  they  went 
together  to  the  door  and  looked  cautiously  out.     The 


The   Ohouans,  331 

marquis  saw  Gudin  and  his  men  holdmg  the  paths  lead- 
ing to  the  valle}'.  Then  he  turned  to  the  hne  of  gates 
where  the  first  rotten  trunk  was  guarded  by  five  men. 
Without  an  instant's  pause,  he  jumped  on  the  barrel  of 
cider  and  struck  a  hole  through  the  thatch  of  the  roof, 
from  which  to  spring  upon  the  rocks  behind  tlie  house ; 
but  he  drew  his  head  hastily  back  through  the  gap  he  had 
made,  for  Hulot  was  on  the  height ;  his  retreat  was  cut 
off  in  that  direction.  The  marquis  turned  and  looked 
at  his  mistress,  who  uttered  a  cry  of  despair ;  for  she 
heard  the  tramp  of  the  three  detachments  near  the  house. 

''  Go  out  first,"  he  said  ;  "  3^ou  shall  save  me." 

Hearing  the  words,  to  her  all-glorious,  she  went  out 
and  stood  before  the  door.  The  marquis  loaded  his 
musket.  Measuring  with  his  eye  the  space  between  the 
door  of  the  hut  and  the  old  rotten  trunk  where  seven 
men  stood,  the  Gars  fired  into  their  midst  and  sprang 
forward  instantly,  forcing  a  passage  through  them.  The 
three  troops  rushed  towards  the  opening  through  which 
he  had  passed,  and  saw  him  running  across  the  field 
with  incredible  celerity. 

"  Fire  !  fire  !  a  thousand  devils  !  You  re  not  French 
men  !     Fire,  I  say  !  "  called  Hulot. 

As  he  shouted  these  words  from  the  height  above, 
his  men  and  Gudin's  fired  a  volley,  which  was  fortu- 
nately ill-aimed.  The  marquis  reached  the  gate  of  the 
next  field,  but  as  he  did  so  he  was  almost  caught  by 
Gudin,  who  was  close  upon  his  heels.  The  Gars  re- 
doubled his  speed.  Nevertheless,  he  and  his  pursuer 
reached  the  next  barrier  together;  but  the  marquis 
dashed  his  musket  at  Gudin's  head  with  so  good  an 
aim  tliat  he  stopped  his  rush.  It  is  impossible  to  de- 
pict the  anxiety  betrayed  by  Marie,  or  the  interest  of 


332  The  Ohouans. 

Hulot  and  his  troops  as  they  watched  the  scene.  They 
all,  unconsciously  and  silently,  repeated  the  gestures 
which  they  saw  the  runners  making.  The  Gars  and 
Gudin  reached  the  little  wood  together,  but  as  the}'  did 
so  the  latter  stopped  and  darted  behind  a  tree.  About 
twenty  Chouans,  afraid  to  fire  at  a  distance  lest  they 
should  k\\\  their  leader,  rushed  from  the  copse  and  rid- 
dled the  tree  with  balls.  Hulot's  men  advanced  at  a 
run  to  save  Gudin,  who,  being  without  arms,  retreated 
from  tree  to  tree,  seizing  his  opportunit}'  as  the  Chouans 
reloaded.  His  danger  was  soon  over.  Hulot  and  the 
Blues  met  him  at  the  spot  where  the  marquis  had 
thrown  his  musket.  At  this  instant  Gudin  perceived 
his  adversar}'  sitting  among  the  trees  and  out  of  breath, 
and  he  left  his  comrades  firmg  at  the  Chouans,  who  had 
retreated  behind  a  lateral  hedge  ;  slipping  round  them, 
he  darted  towards  the  marquis  with  the  agility  of  a 
wild  animal.  Observing  this  manoeuvre  the  Chouans 
set  up  a  cr}'  to  warn  their  leader ;  then,  having  fired  on 
the  Blues  and  their  contingent  with  the  gusto  of 
poachers,  thej^  boldly  made  a  rush  for  them  ;  but  Hu- 
lot's men  sprang  through  the  hedge  which  served  them 
as  a  rampart  and  took  a  bloody  revenge.  The  Chouans 
then  gamed  the  road  which  skirted  the  fields  and  took 
to  the  heights  which  Hulot  had  committed  the  blunder 
of  abandoning.  Before  the  Blues  had  time  to  reform, 
the  Chouans  were  entrenched  behind  the  rocks,  where 
they  could  fire  with  impunity  on  the  Republicans  if  the 
latter  made  any  attempt  to  dislodge  them. 

While  Hulot  and  his  soldiers  went  slowly  towards  the 
little  wood  to  meet  Gudin,  the  men  from  Fougeres 
busied  themselves  in  rifling  the  dead  Chouans  and  dis- 
patchmg   those  who   still   lived.     In    this    fearful   war 


The    Chouans.  333 

neither  party  took  prisoners.  The  marqnis  having  made 
good  his  escape,  the  Chouans  and  the  Blues  mutually 
recognized  their  respective  positions  and  the  useless- 
ness  of  continuing  the  fight ;  so  that  both  sides  pre- 
pared to  retreat. 

"Ha!  ha!"  cried  one  of  the  Foug^res  men,  busy 
about  the  bodies,  "  here  's  a  bird  with  yellow  wings." 

And  he  showed  his  companions  a  purse  full  of  gold 
which  he  had  just  found  in  the  pocket  of  a  stout  man 
dressed  in  black. 

"What's  this?"  said  another,  pulling  a  breviary 
from  the  dead  man's  coat. 

"  Communion  bread  —  he  's  a  priest!  "  cried  the 
first  man,  flinging  the  breviary  on  the  ground. 

"  Here  's  a  wretch  !  "  cried  a  third,  finding  only  two 
crowns  in  the  pockets  of  the  body  he  was  stripping,  "  a 
cheat!" 

"  But  he  's  got  a  fine  pair  of  shoes  !  "  said  a  soldier,  be- 
ginning to  pull  them  off. 

"You  can't  have  them  unless  they  fall  to  your 
share,"  said  the  Fougeres  man,  dragging  the  dead  feet 
away  and  flinging  the  boots  on  a  heap  of  clothing  al- 
ready collected. 

Another  Chouan  took  charge  of  the  money,  so  that 
lots  might  be  drawn  as  soon  as  the  troops  were  all  as- 
sembled. When  Hulot  returned  with  Gudin,  whose 
last  attempt  to  overtake  the  Gars  was  useless  as  well 
as  perilous,  he  found  about  a  score  of  his  own  men  and 
thirt}^  of  the  contingent  standing  around  eleven  of  the 
enemy,  whose  naked  bodies  were  thrown  into  a  ditch  at 
the  foot  of  the  bank. 

"  Soldiers !  "  cried  Hulot,  sternly.  "  I  forbid  you  to 
share  that  clothing.     Form  in  hne,  quick! " 


334  The   Ohouans. 

"  Commandant,"  said  a  soldier,  pointing  to  his  shoes, 
at  the  points  of  which  five  bare  toes  could  be  seen  on 
each  foot,  "  all  right  about  the  mone^',  but  those 
boots,"  motioning  to  a  pair  of  hob-nailed  shoes  with  the 
butt  of  his  gun,  ''  would  fit  me  like  a  glove." 

"  Do  you  want  to  put  English  shoes  on  your  feet?" 
retorted  Hulot. 

"  But,"  said  one  of  the  Fougeres  men,  respectfully, 
*'  we  Ve  divided  the  booty  all  through  the  war." 

''  I  don't  prevent  you  civilians  from  following  your 
own  ways,"  replied  Hulot,  roughly. 

"  Here,  Gudin,  here's  a  purse  with  three  louis,"  said 
the  officer  who  was  distributing  the  mone3\  "  You 
have  run  hard  and  the  commandant  won't  prevent  your 
taking  it." 

Hulot  looked  askance  at  Gudin,  and  saw  that  he 
turned  pale. 

''  It 's  my  uncle's  purse  !  "  exclaimed  the  j'oung  man. 

Exhausted  as  he  was  with  his  run,  he  sprang  to 
the  mound  of  bodies,  and  the  first  that  met  his  eyes 
was  that  of  his  uncle.  But  he  had  hardly  recognized 
the  rubicund  face  now  furrowed  with  blue  lines,  and 
seen  the  stiffened  arms  and  the  gunshot  wound  before 
he  gave  a  stifled  cry,  exclaiming,  ' '  Let  us  be  off", 
commandant." 

The  Blues  started.  Hulot  gave  his  arm  to  his  young 
friend. 

'*  God's  thunder !  "  he  cried.  "  Never  mind,  it  is  no 
great  matter." 

"  But  he  is  dead,"  said  Gudin,  "  dead !  He  was  my 
only  relation,  and  though  he  cursed  me,  still  he  loved 
me.  If  the  king  returns,  the  neighborhood  will  want 
my  head,  and  my  poor  uncle  would  have  saved  it." 


The   Chouans.  335 

"  What  a  fool  Guclin  is,"  said  one  of  the  men  who 
had  stayed  behind  to  share  the  spoils ;  "  his  uncle  was 
rich,  and  he  has  n't  had  time  to  make  a  will  and  disin- 
herit him." 

The  division  over,  the  men  of  Fougeres  rejoined  the 
little  battalion  of  the  Blues  on  their  way  to  the  town. 

Towards  midnight  the  cottage  of  Galope-Chopine, 
hitherto  the  scene  of  life  without  a  care,  was  full  of 
dread  and  horrible  anxiety.  Barbette  and  her  little 
boy  returned  at  the  supper-hour,  one  with  her  heavy 
burden  of  rushes,  the  other  carrying  fodder  for  the 
cattle.  Entering  the  hut,  they  looked  about  in  vain  for 
Galope-Chopine  ;  the  miserable  chamber  never  looked  to 
them  as  large,  so  empty  was  it.  The  fire  was  out,  and 
the  darkness,  the  silence,  seemed  to  tell  of  some  dis- 
aster. Barbette  hastened  to  make  a  blaze,  and  to 
light  two  oribus,  the  name  given  to  candles  made  of 
pitch  in  the  region  between  the  villages  of  Amorique 
and  the  Upper  Loire,  and  still  used  beyond  Amboise  in 
the  Vendomois  districts.  Barbette  did  these  things  with 
the  slowness  of  a  person  absorbed  by  one  overpowering 
feeling.  She  listened  to  every  sound.  Deceived  b}' 
the  whistling  of  the  wind  she  went  often  to  the  door  of 
the  hut,  returning  sadly.  She  cleaned  two  beakers, 
filled  them  with  cider,  and  placed  them  on  the  long 
table.  Now  and  again  she  looked  at  her  boy,  who 
watched  the  baking  of  the  buckwheat  cakes,  but  did 
not  speak  to  him.  The  lad's  eyes  happened  to  rest  on 
the  nails  which  usually  held  his  father's  duck-gun,  and 
Barbette  trembled  as  she  noticed  that  the  gun  was  gone. 
The  silence  was  broken  onl}'  by  the  lowing  of  a  cow  or 
the  splash  of  the  cider  as  it  dropped  at  regular  intervals 


3B6  The   Chouans. 

from  the  bung  of  the  cask.  The  poor  woman  sighed 
while  she  poured  into  three  brown  earthenware  porrin- 
gers a  sort  of  soup  made  of  milk,  biscuit  broken  into 
bits,  and  boiled  chestnuts. 

"They  must  have  fought  in  the  field  next  to  the 
Berandiere,"  said  the  boy. 

"  Go  and  see,"  replied  his  mother. 

The  child  ran  to  the  place  where  the  fighting  had,  as 
he  said,  taken  place.  In  the  moonlight  he  found  the 
heap  of  bodies,  but  his  father  was  not  among  them,  and 
he  came  back  whistling  joyousl}^  having  picked  up 
several  five-franc  pieces  trampled  in  the  mud  and  over- 
looked by  the  victors.  His  mother  was  sitting  on  a 
stool  beside  the  fire,  emplojed  in  spinning  flax.  He 
made  a  negative  sign  to  her,  and  then,  ten  o'clock  hav- 
ing struck  from  the  tower  of  Saint-Leonard,  he  went  to 
bed,  muttering  a  prayer  to  the  holj'  Virgin  of  Aura}-. 
At  dawn.  Barbette,  who  had  not  closed  her  eyes,  gave 
a  cr}'  of  joy,  as  she  heard  in  the  distance  a  sound  she 
knew  well  of  hobnailed  shoes,  and  soon  after  Galope- 
Chopine's  scowling  face  presented  itself. 

"  Thanks  to  Saint-Labre,"  he  said,  "  to  whom  I  owe 
a  candle,  the  Gars  is  safe.  Don't  forget  that  we  now 
owe  three  candles  to  the  saint." 

He  seized  a  beaker  of  cider  and  emptied  it  at  a 
draught  without  drawing  breath.  When  his  wife  had 
served  his  soup  and  taken  his  gun  and  he  himself  was 
seated  on  the  wooden  bench,  he  said,  looking  at  the 
fire ;  "I  can't  make  out  how  the  Blues  got  here. 
The  fighting  was  at  Florigny.  Who  the  devil  could 
have  told  them  that  the  Gars  was  in  our  house  ;  no  one 
knew  it  but  he  and  his  handsome  garce  and  we  —  " 

Barbette  turned  white. 


The   Ohouans.  337 

'*  The}'  made  me  believe  the}-  were  the  gars  of  Saint- 
Georges,"  she  said,  trembling,  "  it  was  I  who  told  them 
the  Gars  was  here." 

Galope-Chopine  turned  pale  himself  and  dropped  his 
porringer  on  the  table. 

''  I  sent  the  boy  to  warn  .you,"  said  Barbette,  fright- 
ened, "  did  n't  you  meet  him?" 

The  Chouan  rose  and  struck  his  wife  so  violently  that 
she  dropped,  pale  as  death,  upon  the  bed. 

"You  cursed  woman,"  he  said,  ^'30u  have  killed 
me!"  Then  seized  with  remorse,  he  took  her  in  his 
arms.  "  Barbette  !  "  he  cried,  "  Barbette  !  —  Holy  Vir- 
gin, my  hand  was  too  heavy  !  " 

"Do  you  think,"  she  said,  opening  her  eyes,  "that 
Marche-a-Terre  will  hear  of  it  ?  " 

"  The  Gars  will  certainly  inquire  who  betra3'ed  him." 

"  Will  he  tell  it  to  Marche-a-Terre?  " 

"  Marche-a-Terre  and  Pille-Miche  were  both  at 
Florigny." 

Barbette  breathed  easier. 

"  If  they  touch  a  hair  of  your  head,"  she  cried,  "  T  '11 
rinse  their  glasses  with  vinegar." 

"  Ah!  I  can't  eat,"  said  Galope-Chopine,  anxiously. 

His  wife  set  another  pitcher  full  of  cider  before  him, 
but  he  paid  no  heed  to  it.  Two  big  tears  rolled  from 
the  woman's  e3^es  and  moistened  the  deep  furrows  of 
her  withered  face. 

"  Listen  to  me,  wife ;  to-morrow  morning  3'ou  must 
gather  fagots  on  the  rocks  of  Saint-Sulpice,  to  the  right 
of  Saint-L6onard  and  set  fire  to  them.  That  is  a  signal 
agreed  upon  between  the  Gars  and  the  old  rector  of 
Saint-Georges  who  is  to  come  and  sa3^  mass  for  him." 

"  Is  the  Gars  going  to  Fougeres?  " 
22 


338  The   (Jhouans, 

"  Yes,  to  see  his  handsome  garce.  I  have  been  sent 
here  and  there  all  day  about  it  I  think  he  is  going  to 
marry  her  and  carry  her  off;  for  he  told  me  to  hire 
horses  and  have  them  ready  on  the  road  to  Saint-Malo." 

Thereupon  Galope-Chopine,  who  was  tired  out,  went 
to  bed  for  an  hour  or  two,  at  the  end  of  which  time  he 
again  departed.  Later,  on  the  following  morning,  he 
returned,  having  carefully  fulfilled  all  the  commissions 
entrusted  to  him  by  the  Gars.  Finding  that  Marche-a- 
Terre  and  Pille-Miche  had  not  appeared  at  the  cottage, 
he  relieved  the  apprehensions  of  his  wife,  who  went  off, 
reassured,  to  the  rocks  of  Saint-Sulpice,  where  she  had 
collected  the  night  before  several  piles  of  fagots,  now 
covered  with  the  hoarfrost.  The  boy  went  with  her, 
carrying  fire  in  a  broken  wooden  shoe. 

Hardly  had  his  wife  and  son  passed  out  of  sight  be- 
hind the  shed  when  Galope-Chopine  heard  the  noise  of 
men  jumping  the  successive  barriers,  and  he  could 
diml}^  see,  through  the  fog  which  was  growing  thicker, 
the  forms  of  two  men  like  moving  shadows. 

"It  is  Marche-a-Terre  and  Pille-Miche,"  he  said, 
mentall}' ;  then  he  shuddered.  The  two  Chouans  en- 
tered the  court^'ard  and  showed  their  gloomy  faces 
under  the  broad-brimmed  hats  which  made  them  look 
like  the  figures  which  engravers  introduce  into  their 
landscapes. 

"Good-morning,  Galope-Chopine,"  said  Marche-a- 
Terre,  gravel}'. 

"  Good-morning,  Monsieur  Marche-a-Terre,"  replied 
the  other,  humbl3\  ' '  Will  jou  come  in  and  drink  a  drop  ? 
I  Ve  some  cold  buckwheat  cake  and  fresh-made  butter." 
*^''  That's  not  to  be  refused,  cousin,"  said  Pille-Miche. 

The  two  Chouans  entered  the  cottage.     So  far  there 


The   Ohouans.  339 

was  nothing  alarming  for  the  master  of  the  house,  who 
hastened  to  fill  three  beakers  from  his  huge  cask  of 
cider,  while  Marche-a-Terre  and  Pille-Miche,  sitting  on 
the  polished  benches  on  each  side  of  the  long  table,  cut 
the  cake  and  spread  it  with  the  rich  yellow  butter  from 
which  the  milk  spurted  as  the  knife  smoothed  it.  Ga- 
lope-Chopine  placed  the  beakers  full  of  frothing  cider 
before  his  guests,  and  the  three  Chouans  began  to  eat ; 
but  from  time  to  time  the  master  of  the  house  cast  side- 
long glances  at  Marche-a-Terre  as  he  drank  his  cider. 

"Lend  me  your  snuff-box,"  said  Marche-a-Terre  to 
Pille-Miche. 

Having  shaken  several  pinches  into  the  palm  of  his 
hand  the  Breton  inhaled  the  tobacco  like  a  man  who  is 
making  ready  for  serious  business. 

''It  is  cold,"  said  Pille-Miche,  rising  to  shut  the 
upper  half  of  the  door. 

The  daylight,  alread}'  dim  with  fog,  now  entered  onl}^ 
through  the  little  window,  and  feebly  lighted  the  room 
and  the  two  seats  ;  the  fire,  however,  gave  out  a  ruddy 
glow.  Galope-Chopine  refilled  the  beakers,  but  his 
guests  refused  to  drink  again,  and  throwing  aside  their 
large  hats  looked  at  him  solemnly.  Their  gestures  and 
the  look  they  gave  him  terrified  Galope-Chopine,  who 
fancied  he  saw  blood  in  the  red  woollen  caps  they 
wore. 

"  Fetch  your  axe,"  said  Marche-a-Terre. 

"  But,  Monsieur  Marche-a-Terre,  what  do  you  want 
it  for?" 

*'  Come,  cousin,  you  know  very  well,"  said  Pille- 
Miche,  pocketing  his  snuff-box  which  Marche-a-Terre 
returned  to  him  ;  "  you  are  condemned." 

The  two  Chouans  rose  together  and  took  their  guns. 


340  The   Chouans. 

"  Monsieur  Marche-a-Teire,  I  never  said  one  word 
about  the  Gars  —  " 

"  I  told  3'ou  to  fetch  your  axe,"  said  Marche-a-Terre. 

The  hapless  man  knocked  against  the  wooden  bed- 
stead of  his  son,  and  several  five-franc  pieces  rolled  on 
the  floor.     Pille-Miche  picked  them  up. 

"  Ho  !  ho!  the  Blues  paid  you  in  new  money,"  cried 
Marche-a-Terre. 

"  As  true  as  that's  the  image  of  Saint-Labre,^'  said 
Galope-Chopine,  "  I  have  told  nothing.  Barbette  mis- 
took the  Fougeres  men  for  the  gars  of  Saint-Georges, 
and  that 's  the  whole  of  it." 

"  Why  do  you  tell  things  to  your  wife  ?  "  said  Marche- 
a-Terre,  roughl3^ 

"  Besides,  cousin,  we  don't  want  excuses,  we  want 
your  axe.     You  are  condemned." 

At  a  sign  from  his  companion,  Pille-Miche  helped 
Marche-^-Terre  to  seize  the  victim.  Finding  himself 
in  their  grasp  Galope-Chopine  lost  all  power  and  fell 
on  his  knees  holding  up  his  hands  to  his  slayers  in 
desperation. 

"My  friends,  my  good  friends,  my  cousin,"  he  said, 
' '  what  will  become  of  my  little  boy  ?  " 

"  I  will  take  charge  of  him,"  said  Marche-a-Terre. 

"  My  good  comrades,"  cried  the  victim,  turning 
livid.  "  I  am  not  fit  to  die.  Don't  make  me  go  with- 
out confession.  You  have  the  right  to  take  my  life,  but 
you  've  no  right  to  make  me  lose  a  blessed  eternit}-." 

"That  is  true,"  said  Marche-a-Terre,  addressing 
Pille-Miche. 

The  two  Chouans  waited  a  moment  in  much  uncer- 
tainty, unable  to  decide  this  case  of  conscience.  Ga- 
lope-Chopine  listened   to  the  rustling  of  the  wind  as 


The   Chouans.  341 

though  he  still  had  hope.  Suddenly  Pille-Miche  took 
him  b}'  the  arm  into  a  corner  of  the  hut. 

"  Confess  3'our  sins  to  me,"  he  said,  "  and  I  will  tell 
them  to  a  priest  of  the  true  Church,  and  if  there  is  an}' 
penance  to  do  I  will  do  it  for  j^ou." 

Galope-Chopine  obtained  some  respite  by  the  way  in 
which  he  confessed  his  sins  ;  but  in  spite  of  their  num- 
ber and  the  circumstances  of  each  crime,  he  came  finally 
to  the  end  of  them. 

"  Cousin,"  he  said,  imploringly,  "  since  I  am  speak- 
ing to  you  as  I  would  to  my  confessor,  I  do  assure 
you,  by  the  holy  name  of  God,  that  I  have  nothing  to 
reproach  myself  with  except  for  having,  now  and  then, 
buttered  my  bread  on  both  sides ;  and  I  call  on  Saint- 
Labre,  who  is  there  over  the  chimney-piece,  to  witness 
that  I  have  never  said  one  word  about  the  Gars.  No, 
my  good  friends,  I  have  not  betrayed  him." 

"Very  good,  that  will  do,  cousin;  you  can  explain 
all  that  to  God  in  course  of  time." 

"  But  let  me  say  good-by  to  Barbette." 

"  Come,"  said  Marche-a-Terre,  "  if  you  don't  want  us 
to  think  you  worse  than  you  are,  behave  like  a  Breton  and 
be  done  with  it." 

The  two  Chouans  seized  him  again  and  threw  him  on 
the  bench  where  he  gave  no  other  sign  of  resistance 
than  the  instinctive  and  convulsive  motions  of  an  ani- 
mal, uttering  a  few  smothered  groans,  which  ceased 
jvhen  the  axe  fell.  The  head  was  off  at  the  first  blow. 
Marche-a-Terre  took  it  by  the  hair,  left  the  room, 
sought  and  found  a  large  nail  in  the  rough  casing  of 
the  door,  and  wound  the  hair  about  it;  leaving  the 
blood}^  head,  the  eyes  of  which  he  did  not  even  close, 
to  hang  there. 


342  The   Chouans. 

The  two  Chouans  then  washed  their  hands,  without 
the  least  haste,  in  a  pot  full  of  water,  picked  up  their 
hats  and  guns  and  jumped  the  gate,  whistling  the 
"  Ballad  of  the  Captain."  Pille-Miche  began  to  sing  in 
a  hoarse  voice  as  he  reached  the  field  the  last  verses  of 
that  rustic  song,  their  melody  floating  on  the  breeze :  — 

"  At  the  first  town 
Her  lover  dressed  her 
All  in  white  satin ; 

"  At  the  next  town 
Her  lover  dressed  her 
In  gold  and  silver. 

"  So  beautiful  was  she 
They  gave  her  veils 
To  wear  in  the  regiment." 


The  tune  became  gradually  indistinguishable  as  the 
Chouans  got  further  away ;  but  the  silence  of  the  coun- 
try was  so  great  that  several  of  the  notes  reached  Bar- 
bette's ear  as  she  neared  home,  holding  her  boy  by  the 
hand.  A  peasant-woman  never  listens  coldly  to  that 
song,  so  popular  is  it  in  the  West  of  France,  and  Bar- 
bette began,  unconsciously,  to  sing  the  first  verses  :  — 

"  Come,  let  us  go,  my  girl, 
Let  us  go  to  the  war ; 
Let  us  go,  it  is  time. 

"  Brave  captain, 
Let  it  not  trouble  you. 
But  my  daughter  is  not  for  you. 


The  Chouans.  348 

"You  shall  not  have  her  on  earth, 
You  shall  not  have  her  at  sea, 
Unless  by  treachery. 

"  The  father  took  his  daughter, 
He  unclothed  her 
And  flung  her  out  to  sea. 

"  The  captain,  wiser  still, 
Into  the  waves  he  jumped 
And  to  the  shore  he  brought  her. 

"  Come,  let  us  go,  my  girl, 
Let  us  go  to  the  war ; 
Let  us  go,  it  is  time. 

"  At  the  first  town 
Her  lover  dressed  her," 
Etc.,  etc. 

As  Barbette  reached  this  verse  of  the  song,  where 
Pille-Miche  had  begun  it,  she  was  entering  the  court- 
yard of  her  home ;  her  tongue  suddenly  stiffened,  she 
stood  still,  and  a  great  cry,  quickly  repressed,  came 
from  her  gaping  lips. 

"  What  is  it,  mother?"  said  the  child. 

'*  Walk  alone,"  she  cried,  pulling  her  hand  away  and 
pushing  him  roughly;  "you  have  neither  father  nor 
mother." 

The  child,  who  was  rubbing  his  shoulder  and  weep- 
ing, suddenly  caught  sight  of  the  thing  on  the  nail ;  his 
childlike  face  kept  the  nervous  convulsion  his  crying 
had  caused,  but  he  was  silent.  He  opened  his  eyes 
wide,  and  gazed  at  the  head  of  his  father  with  a  stupid 
look  which  betrayed  no  emotion  ;  then  his  face,  brutal- 


344  The   Chouans. 

ized  bj  ignorance,  showed  savage  curiosit3\  Barbette 
again  took  his  hand,  grasped  it  violentl}',  and  dragged 
him  into  the  house.  When  Pille-Miche  and  Marche-a- 
Terre  threw  their  victim  on  the  bench  one  of  his  shoes, 
dropping  off,  fell  on  the  floor  beneath  his  neck  and  was 
afterward  filled  with  blood.  It  was  the  first  thing  that 
met  the  widow's  eye. 

'"'-  Take  oflt"  jour  shoe,"  said  the  mother  to  her  son. 
"  Put  your  foot  in  that.  Good.  Remember,"  she 
cried,  in  a  solemn  voice,  "your  father's  shoe  ;  never  put 
on  your  own  without  remembering  how  the  Chouans 
filled  it  with  his  blood,  and  kill  the  Chouans/** 

She  swayed  her  head  with  so  convulsive  an  action 
that  the  meshes  of  her  black  hair  fell  upon  her  neck  and 
gave  a  sinister  expression  to  her  face. 

"  I  call  Saint-Labre  to  witness,"  she  said,  "  that  I 
vow  you  to  the  Blues.  You  shall  be  a  soldier  to  avenge 
your  father.  Kill,-  kill  the  Chouans,  and  do  as  I  do. 
Ha !  they  've  taken  the  head  of  my  man,  and  I  am 
going  to  give  that  of  the  Gars  to  the  Blues." 

She  sprang  at  a  bound  on  the  bed,  seized  a  little  bag 
of  money  from  a  hiding-place,  took  the  hand  of  the  as- 
tonished little  boy,  and' dragged  him  after  her  without 
giving  him  time  to  put  on  his  shoe,  and  was  on  her  waj- 
to  Fougeres  rapidly,  without  once  turning  her  head  to 
look  at  the  home  she  abandoned.  When  they  reached 
the  summit  of  the  rocks  of  Saint-Sulpice  Barbette  set 
fire  to  the  pile  of  fagots,  and  the  boy  helped  her  to  pile 
on  the  green  gorse,  damp  with  hoarfrost,  to  make  the 
smoke  more  dense. 

"That  fire  will  last  longer  than  your  father,  longer 
than  I,  longer  than  the  Gars,"  said  Barbette,  in  a 
savage  voice. 


The   Chouans,  345 

While  the  widow  of  Galope-Chopine  and  her  son 
with  his  bloody  foot  stood  watching,  th*e  one,  with  a 
gloomy  expression  of  revenge,  the  other  with  curiosity, 
tlie  curling  of  the  smoke,  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil's 
e3'es  were  fastened  on  the  same  rock,  trying,  but  in  vain, 
to  see  her  lover's  signal.  The  fog,  which  had  thickened, 
buried  the  whole  region  under  a  veil,  its  gra}"  tints  ob- 
scuring even  the  outlines  of  the  scenery  that  was  near- 
est the  town.  She  examined  with  tender  anxiety  the 
rocks,  the  castle,  the  buildings,  which  loomed  like 
shadows  through  the  mist.  Near  her  window  several 
trees  stood  out  against  this  blue-gray  background  ;  the 
sun  gave  a  dull  tone  as  of  tarnished  silver  to  the  sky  ; 
its  rays  colored  the  bare  branches  of  the  trees,  where  a 
few  last  leaves  were  fluttering,  with  a  ding}"  red.  But 
too  many  dear  and  delightful  sentiments  filled  Marie's 
soul  to  let  her  notice  the  ill-omens  of  a  scene  so  out  of 
harmony  with  the  joys  she  was  tasting  in  advance. 
For  the  last  two  days  her  ideas  had  undergone  a 
change.  The  fierce,  undisciplined  vehemence  of  her 
passions  had  yielded  under  the  influence  of  the  equable 
atmosphere  which  a  true  love  gives  to  life.  The  cer- 
taint}'  of  being  loved,  sought  througii  so  many  perils, 
had  given  birth  to  a  desire  to  re-enter  those  social  con- 
ditions which  sanction  love,  and  which  despair  alone  had 
made  her  leave.  To  love  for  a  moment  only  now  seemed 
to  her  a  species  of  weakness.  She  saw  herself  lifted  from 
tiie  dregs  of  societ}',  where  misfortune  had  driven  her, 
to  the  high  rank  in  which  her  father  had  meant  to  place 
her.  Her  vanity,  repressed  for  a  time  by  the  cruel  al- 
ternations of  hope  and  misconception,  was  awakened 
and  showed  her  all  the  benefits  of  a  great  position. 
Born  in  a  certain  wa}"  to  rank,  marriage  to  a  marquis 


346  The   Ohouans. 

meant,  to  her  mind,  living  and  acting  in  the  sphere 
that  belonged  to  her.  Having  known  the  chances  and 
changes  of  an  adventurous  life,  she  could  appreciate, 
better  than  other  women,  the  grandeur  of  the  feelings 
which  make  the  Famil}'.  Marriage  and  motherhood 
with  all  their  cares  seemed  to  her  less  a  task  than  a  rest. 
She  loved  the  calm  and  virtuous  life  she  saw^  through  the 
clouds  of  this  last  storm  as  a  woman  wear}"  of  virtue 
may  sometimes  covet  an  illicit  passion.  Virtue  was  to 
her  a  new  seduction. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  thought,  leaving  the  window  with- 
out seeing  the  signal  on  the  rocks  of  Saint-Sulpice,  "  I 
have  been  too  coquettish  with  him  —  but  I  knew  he  loved 
me  !  Francine,  it  is  not  a  dream  ;  to-night  I  shall  be 
Marquise  de  Montauran.  What  have  I  done  to  deserve 
such  perfect  happiness  ?  Oh !  I  love  him,  and  love 
alone  is  love's  reward.  And  3"et,  I  think  God  means 
to  recompense  me  for  taking  heart  through  all  m}' 
miser}^ ;  he  -means  me  to  forget  my  sufferings —  for  yo\i 
know,  Francine,  I  have  suffered." 

"To-night,  Marquise  de  Montauran,  you,  Marie? 
Ah  !  until  it  is  done  I  cannot  believe  it !  Who  has  told 
him  your  true  goodness  ?  " 

' '  Dear  child  !  he  has  more  than  his  handsome  eyes 
to  see  me  with,  he  has  a  soul.  If  you  had  seen  him,  as 
I  have,  in  danger !  Oh !  he  knows  how  to  love  —  he  is 
so  brave ! " 

"  If  you  really  love  him  why  do  you  let  him  come  to 
Fougeres?  " 

"We  had  no  time  to  say  one  word  to  each  other 
when  the  Blues  surprised  us.  Besides,  his  coming 
is  a  proof  of  love.  Can  I  ever  have  proofs  enough? 
And  now,  Francine,  do  my  hair." 


The  Chouans.  347 

But  she  pulled  it  down  a  score  of  times  with  motions 
that  seemed  electric,  as  though  some  stormy  thoughts 
were  mingling  still  with  the  arts  of  her  coquetry.  As 
she  rolled  a  curl  or  smoothed  the  shining  plaits  she 
asked  herself,  with  a  i-emnant  of  distrust,  whether  the 
marquis  were  deceiving  her ;  but  treachery  seemed  to 
her  impossible,  for  did  he  not  expose  himself  to  instant 
vengeance  b}'  entering  Fougeres  ?  While  studying  in  her 
mirror  the  effects  of  a  sidelong  glance,  a  smile,  a  gentle 
frown,  an  attitude  of  anger,  or  of  love,  or  disdain,  she 
was  seeking  some  woman's  wile  by  which  to  probe  to 
the  last  instant  the  heart  of  the  young  leader. 

"  You  are  right,  Francine,"  she  said;  "  I  wish  with 
you  that  the  marriage  were  over.  This  is  the  last  of 
my  cloudy  days  —  it  is  big  with  death  or  happiness. 
Oh !  that  fog  is  dreadful,"  she  went  on,  again  looking 
towards  the  heights  of  Saint-Sulpice,  which  were  still 
veiled  in  mist. 

She  began  to  arrange  the  silk  and  muslin  curtains 
which  draped  the  window,  making  them  intercept  the 
light  and  produce  in  the  room  a  voluptuous  chiaro-scuro. 

"Francine,"  she  said,  "take  away  those  knick- 
knacks  on  the  mantelpiece  ;  leave  only  the  clock  and  the 
two  Dresden  vases.  I  '11  fill  those  vases  myself  with  the 
flowers  Corentin  brought  me.  Take  out  the  chairs,  I 
want  only  this  sofa  and  a  fauteuil.  Then  sweep  the 
carpet,  so  as  to  bring  out  the  colors,  and  put  wax 
candles  in  the  sconces  and  on  the  mantel." 

Marie  looked  long  and  carefully  at  the  old  tapestry 
on  the  walls.  Guided  by  her  innate  taste  she  found 
among  the  brilliant  tints  of  these  hangings  the  shades 
by  which  to  connect  their  antique  beauty  with  the  fur- 
niture and  accessories  of  the  boudoir,  either  by  tlie  har- 


348  The   Chouans. 

mony  of  color  or  the  charm  of  contrast.  The  same 
thought  guided  the  arrangement  of  the  flowers  with 
which  she  filled  the  twisted  vases  which  decorated  her 
chamber.  The  sofa  was  placed  beside  the  fire.  On 
either  side  of  the  bed,  which  filled  the  space  parallel  to 
that  of  the  chimne}',  she  placed  on  gilded  tables  tall 
Dresden  vases  filled  with  foliage  and  flowers  that  were 
sweetl}"  fragrant.  She  quivered  more  than  once  as  she 
arranged  the  folds  of  the  green  damask  above  the  bed, 
and  studied  the  fall  of  the  drapery  which  concealed  it. 
Such  preparations  have  a  secret,  ineffable  happiness 
about  them  ;  they  cause  so  many  delightful  emotions 
that  a  woman  as  she  makes  them  forgets  her  doubts ; 
and  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  forgot  hers.  There  is 
in  truth  a  religious  sentiment  in  the  multiplicity  of  cares 
taken  for  one  beloved  who  is  not  there  to  see  them  and 
reward  them,  but  who  will  reward  them  later  with  the 
approving  smile  these  tender  preparations  (always  so 
fully  understood)  obtain.  Women,  as  they  make  them, 
love  in  advance ;  and  there  are  few  indeed  who  would 
not  say  to  themselves,  as  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  now 
thought:  "To-night  I  shall  be  happy!"  That  soft 
hope  lies  in  every  fold  of  the  silk  or  muslin  ;  insensibl3', 
the  harmony  the  woman  makes  about  her  gives  an  at- 
mosphere of  love  in  which  she  breathes  ;  to  her  these 
things  are  beings,  witnesses ;  she  has  made  them  the 
sharers  of  her  coming  joy.  Every  movement,  every 
thought  brings  that  joy  within  her  grasp.  But  pres- 
ently she  expects  no  longer,  she  hopes  no  more,  she 
questions  silence ;  the  slightest  sound  is  to  her  an 
omen ;  doubt  hooks  its  claws  once  more  into  her  heart ; 
she  burns,  she  trembles,  she  is  grasped  by  a  thought 
which  holds  her  like  a  physical  force ;    she  alternates 


The   Chouans.  349 

from  triumph  to  agonj',  and  without  the  hope  of  coming 
happiness  she  could  not  endure  the  torture.  A  score 
of  times  did  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  raise  the  win- 
dow-curtain, hoping  to  see  the  smoke  rising  above  the 
rocks ;  but  the  fog  onh'  took  a  gra^'er  tone,  which  her 
excited  imagination  turned  into  a  warning.  At  last  she 
let  fall  the  curtain,  impatiently  resolving  not  to  raise  it 
again.  She  looked  gloomil}'  around  the  charming  room 
to  which  she  had  given  a  soul  and  a  voice,  asking  her- 
self if  it  were  done  in  vain,  and  this  thought  brought 
her  back  to  her  preparations. 

"  Francine,"  she  said,  drawing  her  into  a  little  dress- 
ing-room which  adjoined  her  chamber  and  was  lighted 
through  a  small  round  window  opening  on  a  dark  corner 
of  the  fortifications  where  they  joined  the  rock  terrace 
of  the  Promenade,  "  put  everything  in  order.  As  for 
the  salon,  you  can  leave  that  as  it  is,"  she  added,  with 
a  smile  which  women  reserve  for  their  nearest  friends, 
the  delicate  sentiment  of  which  men  seldom  understand. 

'*  Ah  !  how  sweet  you  are  !  "  exclaimed  the  little  maid. 

"A  lover  is  our  beauty  —  foolish  women  that  we 
are  !  "  she  replied  gayly. 

Francine  left  her  lying  on  the  ottoman,  and  went 
away  convinced  that,  whether  her  mistress  were  loved 
or  not,  she  would  never  betray  Montauran. 

*'  Are  3^ou  sure  of  what  you  are  telling  me,  old 
woman?  "  Hulot  was  saying  to  Barbette,  who  had  sought 
him  out  as  soon  as  she  reached  Fougeres. 

"  Have  you  got  eyes?  Look  at  the  rocks  of  Saint- 
Sulpice,  there,  my  good  man,  to  the  right  of  Saint- 
Leonard." 

Corentin,  who  was  with  Hulot,  looked  towards  the 


350  The   Chouans, 

summit  in  the  direction  pointed  out  by  Barbette,  and, 
as  the  fog  was  beginning  to  lift,  he  could  see  with  some 
distinctness  the  column  of  white  smoke  the  woman 
told  of. 

^^But  when  is  he  coming,  old  woman?  —  to-night,  or 
this  evening  ?  " 

"  My  good  man,"  said  Barbette,  "  I  don't  know." 

"  Wh}^  do  you  betray  j'our  own  side?"  said  Hulot, 
quickly,  having  drawn  her  out  of  hearing  of  Corentin. 

"Ah!  general,  see  my  boy's  foot  —  that's  washed 
in  the  blood  of  my  man,  whom  the  Chouans  have  killed 
like  a  calf,  to  punish  him  for  the  few  words  j-ou  got  out 
of  me  the  other  day  when  I  was  working  in  the  fields. 
Take  m}-  bo}',  for  you  Ve  deprived  him  of  his  father  and 
his  mother ;  make  a  Blue  of  him,  m}'  good  man,  teach 
him  to  kill  Chouans.  Here,  there 's  two  hundred 
crowns,  —  keep  them  for  him  ;  if  he  is  careful,  they  '11 
last  him  long,  for  it  took  his  father  twelve  years  to  lay 
them  by." 

Hulot  looked  with  amazement  at  the  pale  and  with- 
ered woman,  whose  ej^es  were  dry. 

"  But  you,  mother,"  he  said,  "  what  will  become  of 
you?  you  had  better  keep  the  money." 

"  I?  "  she  replied,  shaking  her  head  sadly.  "  I  don't 
need  anything  in  this  world.  You  might  bolt  me  into 
that  highest  tower  over  there  "  (pointing  to  the  battle- 
ments of  the  castle)  "  and  the  Chouans  would  contrive 
to  come  and  kill  me." 

She  kissed  her  boy  with  an  awful  expression  of  grief, 
looked  at  him,  wiped  away  her  tears,  looked  at  him 
again,  and  disappeared. 

"  Commandant,"  said  Corentin,  "•  this  is  an  occasion 
when  two  heads  are  better  than  one.     We  know  all,  and 


The   Ohouans.  351 

yet  we  know  nothing.  If  3'ou  surround  Mademoiselle 
de  Verneuirs  house  now,  you  will  only  warn  her. 
Neither  you,  nor  I,  nor  your  Blues  and  your  battalions 
are  strong  enough  to  get  the  better  of  that  girl  if  she 
takes  it  into  her  head  to  save  the  ci-devant.  The  fel- 
low is  brave,  and  consequent!}^  wily  ;  he  is  a  young  man 
full  of  daring.  We  can  never  get  hold  of  him  as  he 
enters  Fougeres.  Perhaps  he  is  here  already.  Domi- 
ciliary visit?  Absurdity!  that's  no  good,  it  will  only 
give  them  warning." 

'^Well,"  said  Hulot,  impatiently,  "I  shall  tell  the 
sentry  on  the  Place  Saint-Leonard  to  keep  his  eye  on 
the  house,  and  pass  word  along  the  other  sentinels,  if  a 
young  man  enters  it ;  as  soon  as  the  signal  reaches  me 
I  shall  take  a  corporal  and  four  men  and  —  " 

"  —  and,"  said  Corentin,  interrupting  the  old  soldier, 
"  if  the  young  man  is  not  the  marquis,  or  if  the  marquis 
does  n't  go  in  by  the  front  door,  or  if  he  is  already 
there,  if  —  if  —  if  —  what  then?  " 

Corentin  looked  at  the  commandant  with  so  insulting 
an  air  of  superiority  that  the  old  soldier  shouted  out : 
"  God's  thousand  thunders !  get  out  of  here,  citizen  of 
hell !  What  have  I  got  to  do  with  your  intrigues  ?  If 
that  cockchafer  buzzes  into  my  guard-room  I  shall  shoot 
him ;  if  I  hear  he  is  in  a  house  I  shall  surround  that 
house  and  take  him  when  he  leaves  it  and  shoot  him, 
but  may  the  devil  get  me  if  I  soil  my  uniform  with  any 
of  your  tricks." 

"  Commandant,  the  order  of  the  ministers  states  that 
you  are  to  obey  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil." 

' '  Let  her  come  and  give  them  to  me  herself  and  I  '11 
see  about  it." 

''  Well,  citizen,"  said  Corentin,  haughtily,  *'  she  shall 


352  The   Chouans. 

come.  She  shall  tell  you  herself  the  hour  at  which  she 
expects  the  ci-devant.  Possibl}-  she  won't  be  easy 
till  you  do  post  the  sentinels  round  the  house." 

"  The  devil  is  made  man,"  thought  the  old  leader  as 
he  watched  Corentin  hurrying  up  the  Queen's  Stair- 
case at  the  foot  of  which  this  scene  had  taken  place. 
''  He  means  to  deliver  Montauran  bound  hand  and  foot, 
with  no  chance  to  fight  for  his  life,  and  I  shall  be  har- 
assed to  deatli  with  a  court-martial.  However,"  he 
added,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  "  the  Gars  certainly  is 
an  enemy  of  the  Republic,  and  he  killed  m^*  poor  Ge- 
rard, and  his  death  will  make  a  noble  the  less  —  the 
devil  take  him  !  " 

He  turned  on  the  heels  of  his  boots  and  went  off, 
whistling  the  Marseillaise,  to  inspect  his  guardrooms. 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  was  absorbed  in  one  of 
those  meditations  the  mj^steries  of  which  are  buried  in 
the  soul,  and  prove  by  their  thousand  contradictory 
emotions,  to  the  woman  who  undergoes  them,  that  it  is 
possible  to  have  a  stormy  and  passionate  existence  be- 
tween four  walls  without  even  moving  from  the  ottoman 
on  which  her  very  life  is  burning  itself  awaj'.  She  had 
reached  the  final  scene  of  the  drama  she  had  come  to 
enact,  and  her  mind  was  going  over  and  over  the 
phases  of  love  and  anger  which  had  so  powerfully 
stirred  her  life  during  the  ten  days  which  had  now 
elapsed  since  her  first  meeting  with  the  marquis.  A 
man's  step  suddenly  sounded  in  the  adjoining  room  and 
she  trembled  ;  the  door  opened,  she  turned  quickly  and 
saw  Corentin. 

"You  little  cheat  !"  said  the  police-agent,  "when 
will  you  stop  deceiving?     Ah,  Marie,  Marie,  3'ou.are 


The   Chouans.  353 

playing  a  dangerous  game  by  not  taking  me  into  your 
confidence.  Wliy  do  you  play  such  tricks  without  con- 
sulting me  ?     If  the  marquis  escapes  his  fate  —  " 

"  It  won't  be  your  fault,  will  it?  "  she  replied,  sarcas- 
ticallj^  "  Monsieur,"  she  continued,  in  a  grave  voice, 
' '  by  what  right  do  you  come  into  my  house  ?  " 

"Your  house?"  he  exclaimed. 

"You  remind  me,"  she  answered,  coldl}^,  "that  I 
have  no  home.  Perhaps  you  chose  this  house  deliber- 
ately for  the  purpose  of  committing  murder.  I  shall 
leave  it.     I  would  live  in  a  desert  to  get  away  from  —  " 

"  Spies,  say  the  word,"  interrupted  Corentin.  "  But 
this  house  is  neither  yours  nor  mine,  it  belongs  to  the 
government ;  and  as  for  leaving  it  you  will  do  nothing 
of  the  kind,"  he  added,  giving  her  a  diabolical  look. 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  rose  indignantl}',  made  a 
few  steps  to  leave  the  room,  but  stopped  short  sud- 
denly as  Corentin  raised  the  curtain  of  the  window  and 
beckoned  her,  with  a  smile,  to  come  to  him. 

"  Do  you  see  that  column  of  smoke?  "  he  asked,  with 
the  calmness  he  always  kept  on  his  livid  face,  however 
intense  his  feelings  might  be. 

"What  has  my  departure  to  do  with  that  burning 
brush?"  she  asked. 

"Why  does  your  voice  tremble?"  he  said.  "You 
poor  thing!"  he  added,  in  a  gentle  voice,  "I  know 
all.  The  marquis  is  coming  to  Fougeres  this  evening  ; 
and  it  is  not  with  any  intention  of  delivering  him  to  us 
that  you  have  arranged  this  boudoir  and  the  flowers  and 
candles." 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  turned  pale,  for  she  saw 
her  lover's  death  in  the  eyes  of  this  tiger  with  a  human 
face,  and  her  love  for  him  rose  to  frenzy.     Each  hair 

23 


354  The   Chouans. 

on  her  head  caused  her  an  acute  pain  she  could  not  en- 
dure, and  she  fell  on  the  ottoman.  Corentin  stood  look- 
ing at  her  for  a  moment  with  his  arms  folded,  half 
pleased  at  inflicting  a  torture  which  avenged  him  for 
the  contempt  and  the  sarcasms  this  woman  had  heaped 
upon  his  head,  half  grieved  by  the  sufferings  of  a  crea- 
ture whose  yoke  was  pleasant  to  him,  heav}'  as  it  was. 

''  She  loves  him!  "  he  muttered. 

"Love  him!"  she  cried.  "Ah!  what  are  words? 
Corentin  !  he  is  my  life,  my  soul,  my  breath  !  "  She 
flung  herself  at  the  feet  of  the  man,  whose  silence  terri- 
fied her.  "Soul  of  vileness !  "  she  cried,  "I  would 
rather  degrade  myself  to  save  his  life  than  degrade  my- 
self b}'  betraying  him.  I  will  save  him  at  the  cost  of 
my  own  blood.     Speak,  what  price  must  I  pay  you  ?  " 

Corentin  quivered. 

"  I  came  to  take  your  orders,  Marie,"  he  said,  rais- 
ing her.  "Yes,  Marie,  your  insults  will  not  hinder  my 
devotion  to  your  wishes,  provided  3'ou  will  promise  not 
to  deceive  me  again  ;  you  must  know  by  this  time  that 
no  one  dupes  me  with  impunit3\" 

"  If  you  want  me  to  love  3^ou,  Corentin,  help  me  to 
save  him." 

"At  what  hour  is  he  coming?"  asked  the  spy,  en- 
deavoring to  ask  the  question  calml}'. 

"  Alas,  I  do  not  know." 

They  looked  at  each  other  in  silence. 

"I  am  lost !  "  thought  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil. 

"  She  is  deceiving  me  !  "  thought  Corentin.  "  Marie," 
he  continued,  "I  have  two  maxims.  One  is  never  to 
believe  a  single  word  a  woman  says  to  me  —  that 's  the 
only  means  of  not  being  duped  ;  the  other  is  to  find  what 
interest  she  has  in  doing  the  opposite  of  what  she  saj's, 


The   Chouans.  355 

and  behaving  in  contradiction  to  the  facts  she  pretends 
to  confide  to  me.  I  think  that  you  and  I  understand 
each  other  now." 

"  Perfectly,"  repUed  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil. 
"You  want  proofs  of  m}'  good  faith;  but  I  reserve 
them  for  the  time  when  you  give  me  some  of  yours." 

"  Adieu,  mademoiselle,"  said  Corentin,  coolly. 

''  Nonsense,"  said  the  girl,  smiling ;  "sit  down,  and 
pra}'  don't  sulk  ;  but  if  you  do  I  shall  know  how  to  save 
the  marquis  without  you.  As  for  the  three  hundred  thou- 
sand francs  which  are  always  spread  before  your  eyes, 
I  will  give  them  to  you  in  good  gold  as  soon  as  the 
marquis  is  safe." 

Corentin  rose,  stepped  back  a  pace  or  two,  and  looked 
at  Marie. 

"You  have  grown  rich  in  a  very  short  time,"  he  said, 
in  a  tone  of  ill-disguised  bitterness. 

"  Montauran,"  she  continued,  "will  make  you  a 
better  offer  still  for  his  ransom.  Now,  then,  prove  to 
me  that  you  have  the  means  of  guaranteeing  him  from 
all  danger  and  —  " 

"  Can't  you  send  him  away  the  moment  he  arrives?" 
cried  Corentin,  suddenl}-.  "  Hulot  does  not  know  he 
is  coming,  and  —  "  He  stopped  as  if  he  had  said  too 
much.  "  But  how  absurd  that  you  should  ask  me  how 
to  play  a  trick,"  he  said,  with  an  easy  laugh.  "  Now 
listen,  Marie,  I  do  feel  certain  of  your  loyalty.  Promise 
me  a  compensation  for  all  I  lose  in  furthering  your 
wishes,  and  I  will  make  that  old  fool  of  a  commandant 
so  unsuspicious  that  the  marquis  will  be  as  safe  at  Fou- 
geres  as  at  Saint-James." 

"Yes,  I  promise  it,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  sort  of 
solemnity. 


356  The  Chouans, 

''  No,  not  in  that  way,"  he  said,  '*  swear  it  b3'  your 
mother." 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  shuddered ;  raising  a 
trembling  hand  she  made  the  oath  required  by  the  man 
whose  tone  to  her  had  changed  so  suddenl}'. 

"You  can  command  me,"  he  said  ;  "  don't  deceive  me 
again,  and  you  shall  have  reason  to  bless  me  to-night." 

"I  will  trust  you,  Corentin,"  cried  Mademoiselle  de 
Verneuil,  much  moved.  She  bowed  her  head  gently 
towards  him  and  smiled  with  a  kindness  not  unmixed 
with  surprise,  as  she  saw  an  expression  of  melancholy 
tenderness  on  his  face. 

"  What  an  enchanting  creature  !  "  thought  Corentin, 
as  he  left  the  house.  "  Shall  I  ever  get  her  as  a  means 
to  fortune  and  a  source  of  delight?  To  fling  herself  at 
my  feet !  Oh,  yes,  the  marquis  shall  die  !  If  I  can't 
get  that  woman  in  any  other  way  than  by  dragging  her 
through  the  mud,  I  '11  sink  her  in  it.  At  any  rate,"  he 
thought,  as  he  reached  the  square  unconscious  of  his 
steps,  "  she  no  longer  distrusts  me.  Three  hundred 
thousand  francs  down  !  she  thinks  me  grasping  !  Either 
the  offer  was  a  trick  or  she  is  alread}-  married  to  him.^' 

Corentin,  buried  in  thought,  was  unable  to  come  to  a 
resolution.  The  fog  which  the  sun  had  dispersed  at 
mid-day  was  now  rolling  thicker  and  thicker,  so  that  he 
could  hardlj-  see  the  trees  at  a  little  distance. 

"That's  another  piece  of  ill-luck,"  he  muttered,  as 
he  turned  slowly  homeward.  "It  is  impossible  to  see 
ten  feet.  The  weather  protects  the  lovers.  How  is 
one  to  watch  a  house  in  such  a  fog?  Who  goes 
there?"  he  cried,  catching  the  arm  of  a  boy  who 
seemed  to  have  clambered  up  the  dangerous  rocks 
which  made  the  terrace  of  the  Promenade. 


The   Chouans,  357 

"  It  is  I,"  said  a  childish  voice. 

"  Ah !  the  boy  with  the  bloody  foot.  Do  you  want 
to  revenge  your  father?"  said  Corentin. 

*' Yes,"  said  the  child. 

''  Very  good.     Do  you  know  the  Gars?  " 

'^  Yes> 

"Good  again.  Now,  don't  leave  me  except  to  do 
what  I  bid  you,  and  you  will  obey  your  mother  and 
earn  some  big  sous  —  do  you  like  sous?  " 

''  Yes." 

•'  You  like  sous,  and  you  want  to  kill  the  Gars  who 
killed  your  father  —  well,  I  '11  take  care  of  you.  Ah  ! 
Marie,"  he  muttered,  after  a  pause,  "  you  yourself  shall 
betray  him,  as  you  engaged  to  do  !  She  is  too  violent 
to  suspect  me  —  passion  never  reflects.  She  does  not 
know  the  marquis's  writing.  Yes,  I  can  set  a  trap 
into  which  her  nature  will  drive  her  headlong.  But 
I  must  first  see  Hulot." 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  and  Francine  were  deliber- 
ating on  the  means  of  saving  the  marquis  from  the 
more  than  doubtful  generosity  of  Corentin  and  Hulot's 
bayonets. 

"  I  could  go  and  warn  him,"  said  the  Breton  girl. 

"But  we  don't  know  where  he  is,"  replied  Marie; 
**  even  I,  with  the  instincts  of  love,  could  never  find 
him." 

After  making  and  rejecting  a  number  of  plans  Ma- 
demoiselle de  Verneuil  exclaimed,  "  When  I  see  him  his 
danger  will  inspire  me." 

She  thought,  like  other  ardent  souls,  to  act  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment,  trusting  to  her  star,  or  to  that  in- 
stinct of  adroitness  which  rarely,  if  ever,  fails  a  woman. 
Perhaps  her  heart  was  never  so  wrung.     At  times  she 


358  The  Chouans. 

seemed  stupefied,  her  eyes  were  fixed,  and  then,  at  the 
least  noise,  she  shook  like  a  half- uprooted  tree  which 
the  woodman  drags  with  a  rope  to  hasten  its  fall.  Sud- 
denly, a  loud  report  from  a  dozen  guns  echoed  from  a 
distance.  Marie  turned  pale  and,-  grasped  Francine's 
hand.  "  I  am  dying,"  she  cried;  *' Lhey  have  killed 
him !  " 

The  heavy  footfall  of  a  man  was  heard  in  the  ante- 
chamber. Francine  went  out  and  returned  with  a 
corporal.  The  man,  making  a  militar}'  salute  to  Ma- 
demoiselle de  Verneuil,  produced  some  letters,  the 
covers  of  which  were  a  good  deal  soiled.  Receiving 
no  acknowledgment,  the  Blue  said  as  he  withdrew, 
'*  Madame,  they  are  from  the  commandant." 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  a  prey  to  horrible  presen- 
timents, read  a  letter  written  apparently  in  great  haste 
by  Hulot :  — 

"Mademoiselle  —  a  part}'  of  my  men  have  just 
caught  a  messenger  from  the  Gars  and  have  shot  him. 
Among  the  intercepted  letters  is  one  which  ma}^  he  use- 
ful to  you  and  I  transmit  it  —  etc." 

"  Thank  God,  it  was  not  he  they  shot,"  she  ex- 
claimed, flinging  the  letter  into  the  fire. 

She  breathed  more  freely  and  took  up  the  other  letter, 
inclosed  by  Hulot.  It  was  apparently  written  to  Ma- 
dame du  Gua  by  the  marquis. 

"No,  my  angel,"  the  letter  said,  "I  cannot  go  to- 
night to  La  Vivetiere.  You  must  lose  your  wager  with 
the  count.  I  triumph  over  the  Republic  in  the  person 
of  their  beautiful  emissary.  You  must  allow  that  she 
is  worth  the  sacrifice  of  one  night.  It  will  be  my  only 
victor}'  in  this  campaign,  for  I  have  received  the  news 
that  La  Vendee  surrenders.     I  can  do  nothing  more  in 


The  Chouans.  359 

France.  Let  us  go  back  to  England  —  but  we  will  talk 
of  all  this  to-morrow." 

The  letter  fell  from  Marie's  hands  ;  she  closed  her 
eyes,  and  was  silent,  leaning  backward,  with  her  head 
on  a  cushion.  After  a  long  pause  she  looked  at  the 
clock,  which  then  marked  four  in  the  afternoon. 

"My  lord  keeps  me  waiting,"  she  said,  with  savage 
iron}'. 

"  Oh  !  God  grant  he  may  not  come !  "  cried  Francine. 

"  If  he  does  not  come,"  said  Marie,  in  a  stifled  tone, 
"  I  shall  go  to  him.  No,  no,  he  will  soon  be  here. 
Francine,  do  I  look  well?" 

"  You  are  very  pale." 

"  Ah  !  "  continued  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  glanc- 
ing about  her,  "this  perfumed  room,  the  flowers,  the 
lights,  this  intoxicating  air,  it  is  full  of  that  celestial 
life  of  which  I  dreamed  —  " 

"  Marie,  what  has  happened?" 

*'  I  am  betra3'ed,  deceived,  insulted,  fooled !  I  will 
kill  him,  I  will  tear  him  bit  by  bit !  Yes,  there  was  al- 
ways in  his  manner  a  contempt  he  could  not  hide  and 
which  I  would  not  see.  Oh  !  I  shall  die  of  this  !  Fool 
that  I  am,"  she  went  on  laughing,  "he  is  coming;  I 
have  one  night  in  which  to  teach  him  that,  married  or 
not,  the  man  who  has  possessed  me  cannot  abandon  me. 
I  will  measure  my  vengeance  by  his  offence ;  he  shall 
die  with  despair  in  his  soul.  I  did  believe  he  had  a 
soul  of  honor,  but  no !  it  is  that  of  a  lackey.  Ah, 
he  has  cleverly  deceived  me,  for  even  now  it  seems  im- 
possible that  the  man  who  abandoned  me  to  Pille-Miche 
should  sink  to  such  back-stair  tricks.  It  is  so  base  to 
deceive  a  loving  woman,  for  it  is  so  easy.  He  might 
have  killed  me  if  he  chose,  but  lie  to  me !  to  me,  who 


360  The   Chouans. 

held  him  in  my  thoughts  so  high !  The  scaffold !  the 
scaffold !  ah !  could  I  onl}-  see  him  guillotined !  Am 
I  cruel?  He  shall  go  to  his  death  covered  with  ca- 
resses, with  kisses  which  might  have  blessed  him  for  a 
lifetime  —  " 

''Marie,"  said  Francine,  gently,  "be  the  victim  of 
your  lover  like  other  women ;  not  his  mistress  and  his 
betra3^er.  Keep  his  memor}'  in  3'our  heart ;  do  not 
make  it  an  anguish  to  you.  If  there  were  no  jo^'S  in 
hopeless  love,  what  would  become  of  us,  poor  women 
that  we  are?  God,  of  whom  you  never  think,  Marie, 
will  reward  us  for  obeying  our  vocation  on  this  earth,  — 
to  love,  and  suffer." 

"Dear,"  replied  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  taking 
Prancine's  hand  and  patting  it,  "your  voice  is  very 
sweet  and  persuasive.  Reason  is  attractive  from  your 
lips.     I  should  like  to  obey  you,  but —  " 

"  You  will  forgive  him,  30U  will  not  betra}'  him?  " 

' '  Hush  !  never  speak  of  that  man  again.  Compared 
with  him  Corentin  is  a  noble  being.    Do  you  hear  me?  " 

She  rose,  hiding  beneath  a  face  that  was  horribly  calm 
the  madness  of  her  soul  and  a  thirst  for  vengeance. 
The  slow  and  measured  step  with  which  she  left  the 
room  conveyed  the  sense  of  an  irrevocable  resolution. 
Lost  in  thought,  hugging  her  insults,  too  proud  to  show 
the  slightest  suffering,  she  went  to  the  guardroom  at 
the  Porte  Saint-Leonard  and  asked  where  the  com- 
mandant lived.  She  had  hardly  left  her  house  when 
Corentin  entered  it. 

"  Oh,  Monsieur  Corentin,"  cried  Francine,  "  if  j'ou 
are  interested  in  this  j'oung  man,  save  him ;  Mademoi- 
selle has  gone  to  give  him  up  because  of  this  wretched 
letter." 


The  Chouans.  361 

Corentin  took  the  letter  carelessly  and  asked,  — 

'  '■  Which  way  did  she  go  ?  " 

"I  don't  know." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  will  save  her  from  her  own 
despair." 

He  disappeared,  taking  the  letter  with  him.  When 
he  reached  the  street  he  said  to  Galope-Chopine's  boy, 
whom  he  had  stationed  to  watch  the  door,  "  Which  way 
did  a  lady  go  who  left  the  house  just  now  ?  " 

The  boy  went  with  him  a  little  way  and  showed  him 
the  steep  street  which  led  to  the  Porte  Saint-Leonard. 
"  That  way,"  he  said. 

At  this  moment  four  men  entered  Mademoiselle  de 
Verneuil's  house,  unseen  by  either  the  boy  or  Corentin. 

*'  Return  to  your  watch,"  said  the  latter.  "  Pla}^ 
with  the  handles  of  the  blinds  and  see  what  3'ou  can 
inside  ;  look  about  you  everywhere,  even  on  the  roof" 

Corentin  darted  rapidly  in  the  direction  given  him, 
and  thought  he  recognized  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil 
through  the  fog ;  he  did,  in  fact,  overtake  her  just  as 
she  reached  the  guard-house. 

"  Where  are  you  going?"  he  said  ;  "  you  are  pale  — 
what  has  happened?  Is  it  right  for  you  to  be  out 
alone?     Take  my  arm." 

"  Where  is  the  commandant?  "  she  asked. 

Hardly  had  the  words  left  her  lips  when  she  heard 
the  movement  of  troops  beyond  the  Porte  Saint-Leon- 
ard and  distinguished  Hulot's  gruff  voice  in  the  tumult. 

"God's  thunder !  "  he  cried,  "  I  never  saw  such  fog 
as  this  for  a  reconnaisance  !  The  Gars  must  have  or- 
dered the  weather." 

**  What  are  you  complaining  of  ?  "  said  Mademoiselle 
de  Verneuil,  grasping  his  arm.     '^  The  fog  will  cover 


362  The   Chouans. 

vengeance  as  well  as  perfidy.  Commandant,"  she 
added,  in  a  low  voice,  "you  must  take  measures  at 
once  so  that  the  Gars  may  not  escape  us." 

"Is  he  at  your  house?  "  he  asked,  in  a  tone  which 
showed  his  amazement. 

"  Not  yet,"  she  replied  ;  "  but  give  me  a  safe  man  and 
I  will  send  him  to  you  when  the  marquis  comes." 

"That's  a  mistake,"  said  Corentin ;  "a  soldier 
will  alarm  him,  but  a  boy,  and  I  can  find  one,  will 
not." 

"  Commandant,"  said  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil, 
"  thanks  to  this  fog  which  you  arc  cursing,  3^ou  can  sur- 
round my  house.  Put  soldiers  everywhere.  Place  a 
guard  in  the  church  to  command  the  esplanade  on 
which  the  windows  of  ra}-  salon  open.  Post  men  on 
the  Promenade ;  for  though  the  windows  of  my  bed- 
room are  twenty  feet  above  the  ground,  despair  does 
sometimes  give  a  man  the  power  to  jump  even  greater 
distances  safely.  Listen  to  what  I  say.  I  shall  prob- 
ably send  this  gentleman  out  of  the  door  of  my  house ; 
therefore  see  that  only  brave  men  are  there  to  meet 
him ;  for,"  she  added,  with  a  sigh,  "  no  one  denies  him 
courage  ;  he  will  assuredly  defend  himself." 

"  Gudin !  "  called  the  commandant.  "Listen,  my 
lad,"  he  continued  in  a  low  voice  when  the  young  man 
joined  him,  "  this  devil  of  a  girl  is  betraying  the  Gars 
to  us  —  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  wh}',  but  that's  no 
matter.  Take  ten  men  and  place  3'ourself  so  as  to  hold 
the  cul-de-sac  in  which  the  house  stands ;  be  careful 
that  no  one  sees  either  you  or  your  men." 

"  Yes,  commandant,  I  know  the  ground." 

"  Very  good,"  said  Hulot.  "  I  '11  send  Beau-Pied  to 
let  you  know  when  to  play  your  sabres.     Try  to  meet 


The   Chouans.  363 

the  marquis  3'ourself,  and  if  you  can  manage  to  kill 
him,  so  that  I  sha'n't  have  to  shoot  him  judicially,  you 
shall  be  a  lieutenant  in  a  fortnight  or  my  name's  not 
Hulot." 

Gudin  departed  with  a  dozen  soid4ers. 

"  Do  you  know  what  you  have  done?"  said  Corentin 
to  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil,  in  a  low  voice. 

She  made  no  answer,  but  looked  with  a  sort  of  sat- 
isfaction at  the  men  who  were  starting,  under  com- 
mand of  the  sub-lieutenant,  for  the  Promenade,  while 
others,  following  the  next  orders  given  by  Hulot,  were 
to  post  themselves  in  the  shadows  of  the  church  of 
Saint-Leonard. 

'^  There  are  houses  adjoining  mine,"  she  said  ;  "  you 
had  better  surround  them  all.  Don't  lay  up  regrets  by 
neglecting  a  single  precaution." 

"  She  is  mad,"  thought  Hulot. 

*' Was  I  not  a  prophet?"  asked  Corentin  in  his  ear. 
'*  As  for  the  bo}"  I  shall  send  with  her,  he  is  the  little 
gars  with  a  blood}'  foot ;  therefore  —  " 

He  did  not  finish  his  sentence,  for  Mademoiselle  de 
Verneuil  by  a  sudden  movement  darted  in  the  direction 
of  her  house,  whither  he  followed  her,  whistling  like  a 
man  supremely  satisfied.  When  he  overtook  her  she 
was  already  at  the  door  of  her  house,  where  Galope- 
Chopine's  little  boy  was  on  the  watch. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  Corentin,  '-take  the  lad  with 
you ;  you  cannot  have  a  more  innocent  or  active  emis- 
sary. Boy,"  he  added,  "  when  j'ou  have  seen  the 
Gars  enter  the  house  come  to  me,  no  matter  who  stops 
you;  you'll  find  me  at  the  guard-house  and  I'll  give 
you  something  that  will  make  you  eat  cake  for  the  rest 
of  your  days." 


334  The   Chouans. 

At  these  words,  breathed  rather  than  said  in  the 
child's  ear,  Corentin  felt  his  hand  squeezed  b}-  that  of 
the  little  Breton,  who  followed  Mademoiselle  de  Ver- 
neuil  into  the  house. 

"Now,  m}^  good  friends,  you  can  come  to  an  expla- 
nation as  soon  as  3'ou  like,"  cried  Corentin  when  the 
door  was  closed.  "  If  3'Ou  make  love,  m}^  little  mar- 
quis, it  will  be  on  your  winding-sheet." 

But  Corentin  could  not  bring  himself  to  let  that  fatal 
house  completely  out  of  sight,  and  he  went  to  the 
Promenade,  where  he  found  the  commandant  giving  his 
last  orders.  By  this  time  it  was  night.  Two  hours 
went  by  ;  but  the  sentinels  posted  at  intervals  noticed 
nothing  that  led  them  to  suppose  the  marquis  had 
evaded  the  triple  line  of  men  who  surrounded  the  three 
sides  by  which  the  tower  of  Papegaut  was  accessible. 
Twenty  times  had  Corentin  gone  from  the  Promenade 
to  the  guard-house,  always  to  find  that  his  little  emissarj' 
had  not  appeared.  Sunk  in  thought,  the  sp}'  paced  the 
Promenade  slowly,  enduring  the  martyrdom  to  which 
three  passions,  terrible  in  their  clashing,  subject  a  man, 
—  love,  avarice,  and  ambition.  Eight  o'clock  struck 
from  all  the  towers  in  the  town.  The  moon  rose  late. 
Fog  and  darkness  wrapped  in  impenetrable  gloom  the 
places  where  the  drama  planned  b}"  this  man  was  com- 
ing to  its  climax.  He  was  able  to  silence  the  struggle 
of  his  passions  as  he  walked  up  and  down,  his  arms 
crossed,  and  his  e3'es  fixed  on  the  windows  which  rose 
like  the  luminous  e3'es  of  a  phantom  above  the  rampart. 
The  deep  silence  was  broken  only  by  the  rippling  of  the 
Nangon,  l)y  the  regular  and  lugubrious  tolling  from  the 
belfries,  by  the  heavy  steps  of  the  sentinels  or  the  rattle 
of  arms  as  the  guard  was  hourly  relieved. 


The   Chouans.  365 

''The  night's  as  black  as  a  wolfs  jaw,"  said  the 
voice  of  Pille-Miche. 

"  Gro  on,"  growled  Marche-a-Terre,  "and  don't  talk 
more  than  a  dead  dog." 

"  I'm  hardly  breathing,"  said  the  Chouan. 

"  If  the  man  who  made  that  stone  roll  down  wants 
his  heart  to  serve  as  the  scabbard  for  mj'  knife  he  '11  do 
it  again,"  said  Marche-a-Terre,  in  a  low  voice  scarcely 
heard  above  the  flowing  of  the  river. 

"  It  was  I,"  said  Pille-Miche. 

"  Well,  then,  old  money-bag,  down  on  your  stomach," 
said  the  other,  "  and  wriggle  Kke  a  snake  through  a 
hedge,  or  we  shall  leave  our  carcasses  behind  us  sooner 
than  we  need." 

"  Hey,  Marche-a-Terre,"  said  the  incorrigible  Pille- 
Miche,  who  was  using  his  hands  to  drag  himself  along 
on  his  stomach,  and  had  reached  the  level  of  his  com- 
rade's ear.  "If  the  Grande-Garce  is  to  be  believed 
there'll  be  a  fine  boot}^  to-day.  Will  you  go  shares 
with  me? " 

"Look  here,  Pille-Miche,"  said  Marche-a-Terre  stop- 
ping short  on  the  flat  of  his  stomach.  The  other 
Chouans,  who  were  accompanying  the  two  men,  did  the 
same,  so  wearied  were  they  with  the  difficulties  they  had 
met  with  in  climbing  the  precipice.  "I  know  you," 
continued  Marche-a-Terre,  "for  a  Jack  Grab- All  who 
would  rather  give  blows  than  receive  them  when  there  's 
nothing  else  to  be  done.  We  have  not  come  here  to 
grab  dead  men's  shoes  ;  we  are  devils  against  devils, 
and  sorrow  to  those  whose  claws  are  too  short.  The 
Grande-Garce  has  sent  us  here  to  save  the  Gars.  He 
is  up  there  ;  lift  your  dog's  nose  and  see  that  window 
above  the  tower." 


366  The   Chouans. 

Midnight  was  striking.  Tlie  moon  rose,  giving  the 
appearance  of  white  smoke  to  the  fog.  Pille-Miche 
squeezed  Marche-a-Terre's  arm  and  silently  showed 
him  on  the  terrace  just  above  them,  the  triangular  iron 
of  several  shining  bayonets. 

"  The  Blues  are  there  already,"  said  Pille-Miche  ;  "  we 
sha'n't  gain  anything  by  force." 

"  Patience,"  replied  Marche-a-Terre  ;  "  if  I  examined 
right  this  morning,  we  must  be  at  the  foot  of  the  Pape- 
gaut  tower  between  the  ramparts  and  the  Promenade, 
—  that  place  where  they  put  the  manure ;  it  is  like  a 
feather-bed  to  fall  on." 

''  If  Saint-Labre,"  remarked  Pille-Miche,  "  would 
only  change  into  cider  the  blood  we  shall  shed  to-night 
the  citizens  might  la}'  in  a  good  stock  to-morrow." 

Marche-a-Terre  laid  his  large  hand  over  his  friend's 
mouth  ;  then  an  order  muttered  by  him  went  from  rank 
to  rank  of  the  Chouans  suspended  as  they  were  in  mid- 
air among  the  brambles  of  the  slate  rocks.  Corentin, 
walking  up  and  down  the  esplanade  had  too  practised 
an  ear  not  to  hear  the  rustling  of  the  shrubs  and  the  light 
sound  of  pebbles  rolling  down  the  sides  of  the  precipice. 
Marche-a-Terre,  who  seemed  to  possess  the  gift  of  see- 
ing in  darkness,  and  whose  senses,  continually  in  ac- 
tion, were  acute  as  those  of  a  savage,  saw  Corentin  ; 
like  a  trained  dog  he  had  scented  him.  Fouche's  di- 
plomatist listened  but  heard  nothing  ;  he  looked  at  the 
natural  wall  of  rock  and  saw  no  signs.  If  the  confus- 
ing gleam  of  the  fog  enabled  him  to  see,  here  and  there, 
a  crouching  Chouan,  he  took  him,  no  doubt,  for  a  frag- 
ment of  rock,  for  these  human  bodies  had  all  the  ap- 
pearance of  inert  nature.  This  danger  to  the  invaders 
was   of  short   duration.     Coreutin's   attention  was  di- 


The   Chouans.  367 

verted  by  a  veiy  distinct  noise  coming  from  the  other 
end  of  the  Promenade,  where  the  rock  wall  ended  and  a 
steep  descent  leading  down  to  the  Queen's  Staircase 
began.  When  Corentin  reached  the  spot  he  saw  a 
figure  gliding  past  it  as  if  by  magic.  Putting  out  his 
hand  to  grasp  this  real  or  fantastic  being,  who  was 
there,  he  supposed,  with  no  good  intentions,  he  en- 
countered the  soft  and  rounded  figure  of  a  woman. 

"The  devil  take  you!"  he  exclaimed,  "if  an}^  one 
else  had  met  you,  you  'd  have  had  a  ball  through  your 
head.  What  are  you  doing,  and  where  are  you  going, 
at  this  time  of  night?  Are  3'ou  dumb?  It  certainly 
is  a  woman,"  he  said  to  himself. 

The  silence  was  suspicious,  but  the  stranger  broke  it 
by  saying,  in  a  voice  which  suggested  extreme  fright. 
''  Ah,  my  good  man,  I  'm  on  my  way  back  from  a  wake." 

"  It  is  the  pretended  mother  of  the  marquis,"  thought 
Corentin.  "  I  '11  see  what  she's  about.  Well,  go  that 
way,  old  woman,"  he  replied,  feigning  not  to  recognize 
her.     "  Keep  to  the  left  if  you  don't  want  to  he  shot." 

He  stood  quite  still ;  then  observing  that  Madame  du 
Gua  was  making  for  the  Papegaut  tower,  he  followed  her 
at  a  distance  with  diabolical  caution.  During  this  fatal 
encounter  the  Chouans  had  posted  themselves  on  the 
manure  towards  which  Marche-a-Terre  had  guided 
them. 

"  There 's  the  Grande-Garce  ! "  thought  Marche-a- 
Terre,  as  he  rose  to  his  feet  against  the  tower  wall  like 
a  bear. 

"  We  are  here,"  he  said  to  her  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Good,"  she  replied,  "  there  's  a  ladder  in  the  garden 
of  that  house  about  six  feet  above  the  manure ;  find  it, 
and  the  Gars  is  saved.     Do  you  see  that  small  window 


368  The  Chouans. 

up  there?  It  is  in  the  dressing-room  ;  you  must  get  to 
it.  This  side  of  the  tower  is  the  onl}-  one  not  watched. 
The  horses  are  ready  ;  if  you  can  hold  the  passage  over 
the  Nangon,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  will  put  him  out  of 
danger  —  in  spite  of  his  folly.  But  if  that  woman  tries 
to  follow  him,  stab  her." 

Corentin  now  saw  several  of  the  forms  he  had 
hitherto  supposed  to  be  stones  moving  cautiouslj^  but 
swiftl3\  He  went  at  once  to  the  guardroom  at  the 
Porte  Saint-Leonard,  where  he  found  the  commandant 
full}^  dressed  and  sound  asleep  on  a  camp  bed. 

"  Let  him  alone,"  said  Beau-Pied,  roughly,  "  he  has 
only  just  lain  down." 

' '  The  Chouans  are  here  !  "  cried  Corentin,  in  Hulot's 
ear. 

' '  Impossible  !  but  so  much  the  better,"  cried  the  old 
soldier,  still  half  asleep  ;  ' '  then  he  can  fight." 

When  Hulot  reached  the  Promenade  Corentin 
pointed  out  to  him  the  singular  position  taken  b}^  the 
Chouans. 

"  They  must  have  deceived  or  strangled  the  sentries 
I  placed  between  the  castle  and  the  Queen's  Stair- 
case. Ah  !  what  a  devil  of  a  fog!  However,  patience  ! 
I  '11  send  a  squad  of  men  under  a  lieutenant  to  the 
foot  of  the  rock.  There  is  no  use  attacking  them 
where  they  are,  for  those  animals  are  so  hard  they  'd 
let  themselves  roll  down  the  precipice  without  breaking 
a  Umb." 

The  cracked  clock  of  the  belfry  was  ringing  two  when 
the  commandant  got  back  to  the  Promenade  after  giv- 
ing these  orders  and  taking  every  military  precaution 
to  seize  the  Chouans.  The  sentries  were  doubled  and 
Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil's  house  became  the  centre  of 


The   Chouans.  369 

a  little  army.     Hulot  found  Corentin  absorbed  in  con- 
templation of  the  window  which  overlooked  the  tower. 

"  Citizen,"  said  the  commandant,  "  I  think  the  ci- 
devant  has  fooled  us  ;  there  's  nothing  stirring." 

"He  is  there,"  cried  Corentin,  pointing  to  the  win- 
dow. "  I  have  seen  a  man's  shadow  on  the  curtain. 
But  I  can't  think  what  has  become  of  that  boy.  They 
must  have  killed  him  or  locked  him  up.  There !  com- 
mandant, don't  you  see  that?  there 's  a  man's  shadow  ; 
come,  come  on  !  " 

"I  sha'n't  seize  him  in  bed;  thunder  of  God!  He 
will  come  out  if  he  went  in ;  Gudin  won't  miss  him," 
cried  Hulot,  who  had  his  own  reasons  for  waiting  till 
the  Gars  could  defend  himself. 

"  Commandant,  I  enjoin  you,  in  the  name  of  the  law 
to  proceed  at  once  into  that  house." 

"  You're  a  fine  scoundrel  to  try  to  make  me  do  that." 

Without  showing  an}^  resentment  at  the  command- 
ant's language,  Corentin  said  coolly :  "  You  will  obey 
me.  Here  is  an  order  in  good  form,  signed  by  the 
minister  of  war,  which  will  force  j^ou  to  do  so."  He 
drew  a  paper  from  his  pocket  and  held  it  out.  "Do 
you  suppose  we  are  such  fools  as  to  leave  that  girl  to 
do  as  she  likes?  We  are  endeavoring  to  suppress  a 
civil  war,  and  the  grandeur  of  the  purpose  covers  the 
pettiness  of  the  means." 

"I  take  the  liberty,  citizen,  of  sending  you  to — you 
understand  me  ?  Enough.  To  the  right-about,  march  ! 
Let  me  alone,  or  it  will  be  the  worse  for  you." 

"  But  read  that,"  persisted  Corentin. 

"  Don't  bother  me  with  your  functions,"  cried  Hulot, 
furious  at  receiving  orders  from  a  man  he  regarded  as 
contemptible. 

24 


370  The  Ohouans. 

At  this  instant  Galope-Chopine's  boy  suddenly  ap- 
peared among  them  like  a  rat  from  a  hole. 

"  The  Gars  has  started !  "  he  cried. 

"Which  way?" 

"  The  rue  Saint- Leonard." 

"  Beau-Pied,"  said  Hulot  in  a  whisper  to  the  corpo- 
ral who  was  near  him,  "  go  and  tell  your  lieutenant  to 
draw  in  closer  round  the  house,  and  make  ready  to  fire. 
Left  wheel,  forward  on  the  tower,  the  rest  of  you !  "  he 
shouted.  • 

To  understand  the  conclusion  of  this  fatal  drama  we 
must  re-enter  the  house  with  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil 
when  she  returned  to  it  after  denouncing  the  marquis  to 
the  commandant. 

When  passions  reach  their  crisis  they  bring  us  under 
the  dominion  of  far  greater  intoxication  than  the  petty 
excitements  of  wine  or  opium.  The  lucidity  then 
given  to  ideas,  the  delicacy  of  the  high- wrought  senses, 
produce  the  most  singular  and  unexpected  effects. 
Some  persons  when  they  find  themselves  under  the 
tjTanny  of  a  single  thought  can  see  with  extraordinar}- 
distinctness  objects  scarcel}^  visible  to  others,  while  at 
the  same  time  the  most  palpable  things  become  to  them 
almost  as  if  they  did  not  exist.  When  Mademoiselle 
de  Verneuil  hurried,  after  reading  the  marquis's  letter, 
to  prepare  the  way  for  vengeance  just  as  she  had  lately 
been  preparing  all  for  love,  she  was  in  that  stage  of 
mental  intoxication  which  makes  real  life  like  the  life 
of  a  somnambulist.  But  when  she  saw  her  house  sur- 
rounded, by  her  own  orders,  with  a  triple  line  of  bayo- 
nets a  sudden  flash  of  light  illuminated  her  soul.  She 
judged  her  conduct  and  saw  with  horror  that  she  had 
committed  a  crime.    Under  the  first  shock  of  this  con- 


The   Chouans.  ^        371 

viction  she  sprang  to  the  threshold  of  the  door  and 
stood  there  irresolute,  striving  to  think,  yet  unable  to 
follow  out  her  reasoning.  She  knew  so  vaguely  what 
had  happened  that  she  tried  in  vain  to  remember  whj^ 
she  was  in  the  antechamber,  and  why  she  was  leading 
a  strange  child  by  the  hand.  A  million  of  stars  were 
floating  in  the  air  before  her  like  tongues  of  fire.  She 
began  to  walk  about,  strivir^g  to  shake  off  the  horrible 
torpor  which  laid  hold  of  her ;  but,  like  one  asleep,  no 
object  appeared  to  her  under  its  natural  form  or  in  its 
own  colors.  She  grasped  the  hand  of  the  little  boy  with 
a  violence  not  natui-al  to  her,  dragging  him  along  with 
such  precipitate  steps  that  she  seemed  to  have  the  mo- 
tions of  a  madwoman.  She  saw  neither  persons  nor 
things  in  the  salon  as  she  crossed  it,  and  yet  she  was 
saluted  by  three  men  who  made  way  to  let  her  pass. 

"  That  must  be  she,"  said  one  of  them. 

"  She  is  very  handsome,"  exclaimed  another,  who 
was  a  priest. 

*'Yes/'  replied  the  first;  "but  how  pale  and  agi- 
tated—" 

"  And  beside  herself,"  said  the  third  ;  "  she  did  not 
even  see  us," 

At  the  door  of  her  own  room  Mademoiselle  de  Ver- 
neuil  saw  the  smiling  face  of  Francine,  who  whispered 
to  her  :  "  He  is  here,  Marie." 

Mademoiselle  de  Verne uil  awoke,  reflected,  looked  at 
the  child  whose  hand  she  held,  remembered  all,  and 
replied  to  the  girl:  ''Shut  up  that  boy;  if  you  wish 
me  to  live  do  not  let  him  escape  you." 

As  she  slowly  said  the  words  her  e3'es  were  fixed  on 
the  door  of  her  bedroom,  and  there  they  continued 
fastened  with  so  dreadful  a  fixedness  that  it  seemed  as 


372  The   Chouans. 

if  she  saw  her  victim  through  the  wooden  panels.  Then 
she  gentty  opened  it,  passed  through  and  closed  it  be- 
hind her  without  turning  round,  for  she  saw  the  mar- 
quis standing  before  the  fireplace.  His  dress,  without 
being  too  choice,  had  the  look  of  careful  arrangement 
which  adds  so  much  to  the  admiration  which  a  woman 
feels  for  her  lover.  All  her  self-possession  came  back 
to  her  at  the  sight  of  him.  Her  lips,  rigid,  although 
half-open,  showed  the  enamel  of  her  white  teeth  and 
formed  a  smile  that  was  fixed  and  terrible  rather  than 
voluptuous.  She  walked  with  slow  steps  toward  the 
young  man  and  pointed  with  her  finger  to  the  clock. 

' '  A  man  who  is  worthy  of  love  is  worth  waiting  for," 
she  said  with  deceptive  gayety. 

Then,  overcome  with  the  violence  of  her  emotions,  she 
dropped  upon  the  sofa  which  was  near  the  fireplace. 

"  Dear  Marie,  you  are  charming  when  5^ou  are 
angry,"  said  the  marquis,  sitting  down  beside  her  and 
taking  her  hand,  which  she  let  him  take,  and  entreat- 
ing a  look,  which  she  refused  him.  "  I  hope/'  he  con- 
tinued, in  a  tender,  caressing  voice,  "  that  my  wife  will 
not  long  refuse  a  glance  to  her  loving  husband." 

Hearing  the  words  she  turned  abruptl}'  and  looked 
into  his  eyes. 

' '  What  is  the  meaning  of  that  dreadful  look  ?  "  he 
said,  laughing.  "But  your  hand  is  burning!  oh,  my 
love,  what  is  it?" 

"  Your  love  !  "  she  repeated,  in  a  dull,  changed  voice. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  throwing  himself  on  his  knees  be- 
side her  and  taking  her  two  hands  which  he  covered 
with  kisses.     "  Yes,  my  love  —  I  am  thine  for  life." 

She  pushed  him  violently  away  from  her  and  rose. 
Her  features  contracted,  she   laughed   as  mad   people 


The   Chouans.  373 

laugh,  and  then  she  said  to  him:  "  You  do  not  mean 
one  word  of  all  j'Ou  are  saying,  base  man  —  baser  than 
the  lowest  villain."  She  sprang  to  the  dagger  which 
was  Ij'ing  beside  a  flower-vase,  and  let  it  sparkle  be- 
fore the  eyes  of  the  amazed  young  marquis.  "  Bah !  " 
she  said,  flinging  it  away  from  her,  "  I  do  not  respect 
you  enough  to  kill  you.  Your  blood  is  even  too  vile  to 
be  shed  by  soldiers ;  I  see  nothing  fit  for  you  but  the 
executioner." 

The  words  were  painfully  uttered  in  a  low  voice,  and 
she  moved  her  feet  like  a  spoilt  child,  impatiently.  The 
marquis  went  to  her  and  tried  to  clasp  her. 

''  Don't  touch  me  ! "  she  cried,  recoiling  from  him 
with  a  look  of  horror. 

"  She  is  mad  !  "  said  the  marquis  in  despair. 

*'  Mad,  yes  !  "  she  repeated,  "  but  not  mad  enough  to 
be  your  dupe.  What  would  I  not  forgive  to  passion? 
but  to  seek  to  possess  me  without  love,  and  to  write  to 
that  woman  —  " 

' '  To  whom  have  I  written  ?  "  he  said,  with  an  as- 
tonishment which  was  certainly  not  feigned. 

"  To  that  chaste  woman  who  sought  to  kill  me." 

The  marquis  turned  pale  with  anger  and  said,  grasp- 
ing the  back  of  a  chair  until  he  broke  it,  "  If  Madame 
du  Gua  has  committed  some  dastardly  wrong —  " 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  looked  for  the  letter ;  not 
finding  it  she  called  to  Francine. 

"Where  is  that  letter?"  she  asked. 

"  Monsieur  Corentin  took  it." 

"  Corentin !  ah  !  I  understand  it  all ;  he  wrote  the 
letter ;  he  has  deceived  me  with  diabolical  art  —  as  he 
alone  can  deceive." 

With  a  piercing  cry  she  flung   herself  on  the  sofa, 


374  The  Chouans. 

tears  rushing  from  her  eyes.  Doubt  and  confidence 
were  equally  dreadful  now.  The  marquis  knelt  beside 
her  and  clasped  her  to  his  breast,  saying,  again  and 
again,  the  only  words  he  was  able  to  utter :  — 

"Why  do  you  weep,  my  darling?  there  is  no  harm 
done ;  your  reproaches  were  all  love  ;  do  not  weep,  I 
love  you  —  I  shall  always  love  3^ou." 

Suddenly  he  felt  her  press  him  with  almost  super- 
natural force.  "  Do  you  still  love  me  ? "  she  said, 
amid  her  sobs. 

' '  Can  you  doubt  it  ?  "  he  replied  in  a  tone  that  was 
almost  melanchol3\ 

She  abruptly  disengaged  herself  from  his  arms,  and 
fled,  as  if  frightened  and  confused,  to  a  little  distance. 

"Do  I  doubt  it?"  she  exclaimed,  but  a  smile  of  gen- 
tle meaning  was  on  her  lover's  face,  and  the  words  died 
away  upon  her  lips  ;  she  let  him  take  her  by  the  hand 
and  lead  her  to  the  salon.  There  an  altar  had  been 
hastily  arranged  during  her  absence.  The  priest  was 
robed  in  his  officiating  vestments.  The  lighted  tapers 
shed  upon  the  ceiHng  a  glow  as  soft  as  hope  itself.  She 
now  recognized  the  two  men  who  had  bowed  to  her,  the 
Comte  de  Bauvan  and  the  Baron  du  Guenic,  the  wit- 
nesses chosen  b}'  Montauran. 

"  You  will  not  still  refuse?  "  said  the  marquis. 

But  at  the  sight  she  stopped,  stepped  backward  into 
her  chamber  and  fell  on  her  knees  ;  raising  her  hands 
towards  the  marquis  she  cried  out :  ' '  Pardon  I  pardon  ! 
pardon ! " 

Her  voice  died  away,  her  head  fell  back,  her  eyes 
closed,  and  she  lay  in  the  arms  of  her  lover  and  Fran- 
cine  as  if  dead.  When  she  opened  her  e3'es  the}'  met 
those  of  the  young  man  full  of  loving  tenderness. 


The  Chouans.  375 

''  Marie  !  patience  !  tliis  is  j^our  last  trial,"  he  said. 

"  The  last !  "  she  exclaimed,  bitterly. 

Francine  and  the  marquis  looked  at  each  other  in 
surprise,  but  she  silenced  them  by  a  gesture. 

"Call  the  priest,"  she  said,  "and  leave  me  alone 
with  him." 

They  did  so,  and  withdrew. 

"My  father,"  she  said  to  the  priest  so  suddenly 
called  to  her,  "in  my  childhood,  an  old  man,  white- 
haired  like  yourself,  used  to  tell  me  that  God  would 
grant  all  things  to  those  who  had  faith.     Is  that  true?  " 

"  It  is  true,"  replied  the  priest ;  "  all  things  are  possi- 
ble to  Him  who  created  all." 

Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  threw  herself  on  her  knees 
before  him  with  incredible  enthusiasm. 

"  Oh,  my  God  !  "  she  cried  in  ecstasy,  "  my  faith  in 
thee  is  equal  to  my  love  for  him ;  inspire  me  !  do  here 
a  miracle,  or  take  my  life  !  " 

"  Your  prayer  will  be  granted,"  said  the  priest. 

Marie  returned  to  the  salon  leaning  on  the  arm  of 
the  venerable  old  man.  A  deep  and  secret  emotion 
brought  her  to  the  arms  of  her  lover  more  brilliant  than 
on  any  of  her  past  daj's,  for  a  serenity  like  that  which 
painters  give  to  the  martyrs  added  to  her  face  an  im- 
posing dignity.  She  held  out  her  hand  to  the  marquis 
and  together  they  advanced  to  the  altar  and  knelt  down. 
The  marriage  about  to  be  celebrated  beside  the  nup- 
tial bed,  the  altar  hastily  raised,  the  cross,  the  vessels, 
the  chalice,  secretly  brought  thither  by  the  priest,  the 
fumes  of  incense  rising  to  the  ceiling,  the  priest  himself, 
who  wore  a  stole  above  his  cassock,  the  tapers  on  an 
altar  in  a  salon,  —  all  these  things  combined  to  form 
a  strange  and  touching  scene,  which  typified  those  times 


376  The   Chouans. 

of  saddest  memor},  when  civil  discord  overthrew  all 
sacred  institutions.  Religious  ceremonies  then  had  the 
savor  of  the  mysteries.  Children  were  baptized  in  the 
chambers  where  the  mothers  were  still  groaning  from 
their  iabor.  As  in  the  olden  time,  the  Saviour  went, 
poor  and  lowl}^  to  console  the  dying.  Young  girls  re- 
ceived their  first  communion  in  the  home  where  they 
had  played  since  infancy.  The  marriage  of  the  marquis 
and  Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  was  now  solemnized, 
like  many  other  unions,  b}^  a  service  contrary  to  the 
recent  legal  enactments.  In  after  years  these  mar- 
riages, mostly  celebrated  at  the  foot  of  oaks,  were 
scrupulously  recognized  and  considered  legal.  The 
priest  who  thus  preserved  the  ancient  usages  was  one 
of  those  men  who  hold  to  their  principles  in  the  height 
of  the  storm.  His  voice,  which  never  made  the  oath 
exacted  by  the  Republic,  uttered  no  word  throughout 
the  tempest  that  did  not  make  for  peace.  He  never  in- 
cited, like  the  Abbe  Gudin,  to  fire  and  sword ;  but  like 
many  others,  he  devoted  himself  to  the  still  more  dan- 
gerous mission  of  performing  his  priestly  functions  for 
the  souls  of  faithful  Catholics.  To  accomplish  this  peri- 
lous ministry  he  used  all  the  pious  deceptions  necessi- 
tated by  persecution,  and  the  marquis,  when  he  sought 
his  services  on  this  occasion,  had  found  him  in  one  of 
those  excavated  caverns  which  are  known,  even  to  the 
present  day,  by  the  name  of  "the  priest's  hiding- 
place."  The  mere  sight  of  that  pale  and  suffering  face 
was  enough  to  give  this  worldly  room  a  holy  aspect. 

All  was  now  ready  for  the  act  of  misery  and  of  joy. 
Before  beginning  the  ceremony  the  priest  asked,  in  the 
dead  silence,  the  names  of  the  bride. 

"  Marie-Nathalie,  daughter  of  Mademoiselle  Blanche 


The   Chouans.  377 

de  Casteran,  abbess,  deceased,  of  Notre-Dame  de  Seez, 
aud  Victor-Am^d^e,  Due  de  Verneuil." 

"Where  born?'' 

"  At  La  Chasterie,  near  Alen9on." 

"  I  never  supposed,''  said  the  baron  in  a  low  voice  to 
the  count,  "that  Montauran  would  have  the  folly  to 
marry  her.  The  natural  daughter  of  a  duke  !  —  horrid  !  " 

"If  it  were  of  the  king,  well  and  good,"  replied  the 
Comte  de  Bauvan,  smiling.  "  However,  it  is  not  for  me 
to  blame  him  ;  I  like  Charette's  mistress  full  as  well ; 
and  I  shall  transfer  the  war  to  her  —  though  she 's  not 
one  to  bill  and  coo." 

The  names  of  the  marquis  had  been  filled  in  previ- 
ously, and  the  two  lovers  now  signed  the  document 
with  their  witnesses.  The  ceremony  then  began.  At 
that  instant  Marie,  and  she  alone,  heard  the  sound  of 
muskets  and  the  heavy  tread  of  soldiers,  —  no  doubt  re- 
lieving the  guard  in  the  church  which  she  had  herself 
demanded.  She  trembled  violently  and  raised  her  eyes 
to  the  cross  on  the  altar. 

"  A  saint  at  last,"  said  Francine,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Give  me  such  saints,  aud  I  '11  be  devilishly  devout," 
added  the  count,  in  a  whisper. 

When  the  priest  made  the  customary  inquiry  of  Made- 
moiselle de  Verneuil,  she  answered  by  a  "  yes"  uttered 
with  a  deep  sigh.  Bending  to  her  husband's  ear  she 
said :  ' '  You  will  soon  know  why  I  have  broken  the 
oath  I  made  never  to  marr3^  you." 

After  the  ceremony  all  present  passed  into  the  dining- 
room,  where  dinner  was  served,  and  as  the}^  took  their 
places  J^remie,  Marie's  footman,  came  into  the  room 
terrified.  The  poor  bride  rose  and  went  to  him  ;  Fran- 
cine  followed  her.     With  one  of  those  pretexts  which 


378  The   Chouans. 

never  fail  a  woman,  she  begged  the  marquis  to  do  the 
honors  for  a  moment,  and  went  out,  taking  Jer^mie  with 
her  before  he  could  utter  the  fatal  words. 

"  Ah !  Francine,  to  be  dying  a  thousand  deaths  and 
not  to  die  !  "  she  cried. 

This  absence  might  well  be  supposed  to  have  its 
cause  in  the  ceremony  that  had  just  taken  place. 
Towards  the  end  of  the  dinner,  as  the  marquis  was  be- 
ginning to  feel  uneasy,  Marie  returned  in  all  the  pomp 
of  a  bridal  robe.  Her  face  was  calm  and  joyful,  while 
that  of  Francine  who  followed  her  had  terror  imprinted 
on  every  feature,  so  that  the  guests  might  well  have 
thought  they  saw  in  these  two  women  a  fantastic  pic- 
ture b}?^  Salvator  Rosa,  of  Life  and  Death  holding  each 
other  b}^  the  hand. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Marie  to  the  priest,  the  baron,  and 
the  count,  ' '  you  are  my  guests  for  the  night.  I  find 
you  cannot  leave  Fougeres  ;  it  would  be  dangerous  to 
attempt  it.  M}^  good  maid  has  instructions  to  make 
you  comfortable  in  3^our  apartments.  No,  3'ou  must 
not  rebel,"  she  added  to  the  priest,  who  was  about  to 
speak.  "  I  hope  3'ou  will  not  thwart  a  woman  on  her 
wedding-day." 

An  hour  later  she  was  alone  with  her  husband  in  the 
room  she  had  so  J03'0usly  arranged  a  few  hours  earlier. 
They  had  reached  that  fatal  bed  where,  like  a  tomb,  so 
many  hopes  are  wrecked,  where  the  waking  to  a  happy 
life  is  all  uncertain,  where  love  is  born  or  dies,  accord- 
ing to  the  natures  that  are  tried  there.  Marie  looked 
at  the  clock.     "  Six  hours  to  live,"  she  murmured. 

"Can  I  have  slept?"  she  cried  towards  morning, 
wakening  with  one  of  those  sudden  movements  which 
rouse  us  wheti  we  have  made  ourselves  a  promise  to 


The   Chouans.  379 

wake  at  a  certain  hour.  "  Yes,  I  have  slept,"  she 
thought,  seeing  by  the  light  of  the  candles  that  the 
hands  of  the  clock  were  pointing  to  two  in  the  morning. 
She  turned  and  looked  at  the  sleeping  marquis,  l3'ing 
like  a  child  with  his  head  on  one  hand,  the  other  clasp- 
ing his  wife's  hand,  his  lips  half  smiling  as  though  he 
had  fallen  asleep  while  she  kissed  him. 

"  Ah !"  she  whispered  to  herself,  "he  sleeps  like  an 
infant;  he  does  not  distrust  me  — me,  to  whom  he  has 
given  a  happiness  without  a  name." 

She  touched  him  softly  and  he  woke,  continuing  to 
smile.  He  kissed  the  hand  he  held  and  looked  at  the 
wretched  woman  with  eyes  so  sparkling  that  she  could 
not  endure  their  light  and  slowly  lowered  her  large  eye- 
lids. Her  husband  might  justl}^  have  accused  her  of 
coquetry  if  she  were  not  concealing  the  terrors  of  her 
soul  by  thus  evading  the  fire  of  his  looks.  Together 
they  raised  their  charming  heads  and  made  each  other 
a  sign  of  gratitude  for  the  pleasures  they  had  tasted ; 
but  after  a  rapid  glance  at  the  beautiful  picture  his  wife 
presented,  the  marquis  was  struck  with  an  expression 
on  her  face  which  seemed  to  him  melancholy,  and  he 
said  in  a  tender  voice,  "  Why  sad,  dear  love?  " 

"Poor  Alphonse,"  she  answered,  "  do  you  know  to 
what  I  have  led  you  ?  " 

"To  happiness." 

"To  death!" 

Shuddering  with  horror  she  sprang  from  the  bed ; 
the  marquis,  astonished,  followed  her.  His  wife  mo- 
tioned him  to  a  window  and  raised  the  curtain,  pointing 
as  she  did  so  to  a  score  of  soldiers.  The  moon  had 
scattered  the  fog  and  was  now  casting  her  white  light 
on   the  muskets  and   the  uniforms,  on  the  impassible 


380  The   Chouans. 

Corentin  pacing  up  and  down  like  a  jackal  waiting  for 
his  prey,  on  the  commandant  standing  still,  his  arms 
crossed,  his  nose  in  the  air,  his  lips  curling,  watchful 
and  displeased. 

"  Come,  Marie,  leave  them  and  come  back  to  me." 

"  Wh}^  do  you  smile?     I  placed  them  there." 

"'  You  are  dreaming." 

"No." 

They  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment.  The  mar- 
quis divined  the  whole  truth,  and  he  took  her  in  his 
arms.     "  No  matter  !  "  he  said,  ''  I  love  you  still." 

"All  is  not  lost!"  cried  Marie,  "it  cannot  be! 
Alphonse,"  she  said  after  a  pause,  "there  is  hope." 

At  this  moment  the}-  distinct!}'  heard  the  owl's  cry, 
and  Francine  entered  from  the  dressing-room. 

"Pierre  has  come!  "  she  said  with  a  joy  that  was 
like  delirium. 

The  marquise  and  Francine  dressed  Montauran  in 
Chouan  clothes  with  that  amazing  rapidity  that  belongs 
only  to  women.  As  soon  as  Marie  saw  her  husband 
loading  the  gun  Francine  had  brought  in  she  slipped 
hastily  from  the  room  with  a  sign  to  her  faithful  maid. 
Francine  then  took  the  marquis  to  the  dressing-room 
adjoining  the  bed-chamber.  The  young  man  seeing  a 
large  number  of  sheets  knotted  firmly  together,  per- 
ceived the  means  by  which  the  girl  expected  him  to 
escape  the  vigilance  of  the  soldiers. 

"  I  can't  get  through  there,"  he  said,  examining  the 
bulFs-eye  window. 

At  that  instant  it  was  darkened  by  a  thickset  figure, 
and  a  hoarse  voice,  known  to  Francine,  said  in  a  whis- 
per, ' '  Make  haste,  general,  those  rascally  Blues  are 
stirring." 


The  Chouans.  881 

"  Oh !  one  more  kiss,"  said  a  trembling  voice  beside 
him. 

The  marquis,  whose  feet  were  akead}'  on  the  liberat- 
ing ladder,  though  he  was  not  wholly  through  the  win- 
dow, felt  his  neck  clasped  with  a  despairing  pressure. 
Seeing  that  his  wife  had  put  on  his  clothes,  he  tried  to 
detain  her ;  but  she  tore  herself  roughly  from  his 
arms  and  he  was  forced  to  descend.  In  his  hand  he 
held  a  fragment  of  some  stuff"  which  the  moonlight 
showed  him  was  a  piece  of  the  waistcoat  he  had  worn 
the  night  before. 

"Halt!  fire!" 

These  words  uttered  by  Hulot  in  the  midst  of  a  silence 
that  was  almost  horrible  broke  the  spell  which  seemed 
to  hold  the  men  and  their  surroundings.  A  volley  of 
balls  coming  from  the  valley  and  reaching  to  the  foot  of 
the  tower  succeeded  the  discharges  of  the  Blues  posted 
on  the  Promenade.  The  fire  of  the  Republicans  was  un- 
remitting. Not  a  cry  came  from  Uie  Chouans.  Between 
each  discharge  the  silence  was  frightful. 

But  Corentin  had  heard  a  fall  from  the  ladder  on  the 
precipice  side  of  the  tower,  and  he  suspected  some  ruse. 

"  None  of  those  animals  are  growling,"  he  said  to 
Hulot;  "  our  lovers  are  capable  of  fooling  us  on  this 
side,  and  escaping  themselves  on  the  other." 

The  spy,  to  clear  up  the  mystery,  sent  for  torches ; 
Hulot,  understanding  the  force  of  Corentin's  supposition, 
and  hearing  the  noise  of  a  serious  struggle  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  Porte  Saint-Leonard,  rushed  to  the 
guard-house  exclaiming:  "That's  true,  they  won't 
separate." 

"  His  head  is  well  riddled,  commandant,"  said  Beau- 
Pied,  who  was  the  first  to  meet  him,  "  but  he  killed 


382  The   Chouans. 

Gudin,  and  wounded  two  men.  Ha !  the  savage ;  he 
got  through  three  ranks  of  our  best  men  and  would 
have  reached  the  fields  if  it  had  n't  been  for  the  sentry 
at  the  gate  who  spitted  him  on  his  bayonet." 

The  commandant  rushed  into  the  guard-room  and  saw 
on  a  camp  bedstead  a  bloody  body  which  had  just  been 
laid  there.  He  went  up  to  the  supposed  marquis, 
raised  the  hat  which  covered  the  face,  and  fell  into  a 
chair. 

' '  I  suspected  it !  "  he  cried,  crossing  his  arms  vio- 
lently ;  "  she  kept  him,  cursed  thunder !  too  long." 

The  soldiers  stood  about,  motionless.  The  com- 
mandant himself  unfastened  the  long  black  hair  of  a 
woman.  Suddenly  the  silence  was  broken  bj^  the 
tramp  of  men  and  Corentin  entered  the  guardroom, 
preceding  four  soldiers  who  bore  on  their  guns,  crossed 
to  make  a  litter,  the  bod}'  of  Montauran,  who  was  shot 
in  the  thighs  and  arms.  They  laid  him  on  the  bedstead 
beside  his  wife.  He  saw  her,  and  found  strength  to 
clasp  her  hand  with  a  convulsive  gesture.  The  dying 
woman  turned  her  head,  recognized  her  husband, 
and  shuddered  with  a  spasm  that  was  horrible  to  see, 
murmuring  in  a  voice  almost  extinct:  ''A  day  with- 
out a  morrow  !  God  heard  me  too  well." 

"  Commandant,"  said  the  marquis,  collecting  all  his 
strength,  and  still  holding  Marie's  hand,  ''I  count 
on  your  honor  to  send  the  news  of  m}'  death  to  mj" 
young  brother,  who  is  now  in  London.  Write  him 
that  if  he  wishes  to  obey  my  last  injunction  he  will 
never  bear  arms  against  his  country  —  neither  must  he 
abandon  the  king's  service." 

"  It  shall  be  done,"  said  Hulot,  pressing  the  hand  of 
the  dying  man. 


The   Chouans.  383 

"  Take  them  to  the  nearest  hospital,"  cried  Corentin. 

Hulot  took  the  spy  by  the  arm  with  a  grip  that  left 
the  imprint  of  his  fingers  on  the  flesh. 

"Out  of  this  camp!"  he  cried ;  "your  business  is 
done  here.  Look  well  at  the  face  of  Commander  Hulot, 
and  never  find  yourself  again  in  his  way  if  3'ou  don't 
want  3'our  belly  to  be  the  scabbard  of  his  blade  —  " 

And  the  old  soldier  flourished  his  sabre. 

"  That's  another  of  the  honest  men  who  will  never 
make  their  way,"  said  Corentin  to  himself  when  he  was 
some  distance  from  the  guardrooip. 

The  marquis  was  still  able  to  thank  his  gallant  ad- 
versary by  a  look  marking  the  respect  which  all  soldiers 
feel  for  loyal  enemies. 

In  1827  an  old  man  accompanied  by  his  wife  was 
buying  cattle  in  the  market-place  of  Fougeres.  Few 
persons  remembered  that  he  had  killed  a  hundred  or 
more  men,  and  that  his  former  name  was  Marche-ii- 
Terre.  A  person  to  whom  we  owe  important  informa- 
tion about  all  the  personages  of  this  drama  saw  him 
there,  leading  a  cow,  and  was  struck  by  his  simple,  in- 
genuous air,  which  led  her  to  remark,  "  That  must  be 
a  worthy  man." 

As  for  Cibot,  otherwise  called  Pille-Miche,  we  alreadj^ 
know  his  end.  It  is  likelj^  that  Marche-a-Terre  made 
some  attempt  to  save  his  comrade  from  the  scafibld  ;  pos- 
sibly he  was  in  the  square  at  Alen^on  on  the  occasion 
of  the  frightful  tumult  which  was  one  of  the  events  of  the 
famous  trial  of  Rifoel,  Briond,  and  la  Chanterie. 


THE    END. 


Balzac  in  English. 


PIERRETTE 

AND 

Thk  Vicar    ok    Tours. 

BY    HONORE    DE    BALZAC. 
Translated  by  Katharine  Prescott  Wormeley. 


In  Pierrette.,  which  Miss  Wormeley  has  added  to  her  series  of  felicitous 
translations  from  the  French  master-fictionists,  Balzac  has  made  within 
brief  compass  a  marvellously  sympathetic  study  of  the  martyrdom  ot  a 
young  girl.  Pierrette,  a  flower  of  Brittany,  beautiful,  pale,  and  fair  and 
sweet,  is  taken  as  an  undesired  charge  by  sordid-minded  cousins  in  Pro- 
vins,  and  like  an  exotic  transplanted  into  a  harsh  and  sour  soil  she  withers 
and  fades  under  the  cruel  conditions  of  her  new  environment.  Inciden- 
tally Balzac  depicts  in  vivid  colors  the  struggles  of  two  shop-keepers  —  a 
brother  and  sister,  who  have  amassed  a  little  fortune  in  Paris  —  to  gain  a 
foothold  among  the  bourgeoisie  of  their  native  town.  These  two  become 
the  prey  of  conspirators  for  political  advancement,  and  the  rivalries  thus 
engendered  shake  the  small  provincial  society  to  its  centre.  But  the 
charm  of  the  tale  is  in  the  portrayal  of  the  character  of  Pierrette,  who 
understands  only  how  to  love,  and  who  cannot  live  in  an  atmosphere  of 
suspicion  and  ill-treatment.  The  story  is  of  course  sad,  but  its  fidelity  to 
life  and  the  pathos  of  it  are  elements  of  unfailing  interest.  Balzac  brings 
a  score  or  more  of  people  upon  the  stage,  shows  each  one  as  he  or  she 
really  is  both  in  outward  appearance  and  inward  nature,  and  then  allows 
motives  and  circumstances  to  work  out  an  inevitable  result.  To  watch 
this  process  is  like  being  present  at  some  wonderful  chemical  experiment 
where  the  ingredients  are  mixed  with  a  deft  and  careful  hand,  and  combine 
to  produce  effects  of  astonishing  significance.  The  social  genesis  of  the 
old  maid  in  her  most  abhorrent  form  occupies  much  of  Balzac's  attention 
in  Pierrette,  and  this  theme  also  has  a  place  in  the  story  of  The  Vicar  of 
Tours,  bound  up  in  this  same  volume.  The  vicar  is  a  simple-minded 
priest  who  is  happy  enough  till  he  takes  up  his  quarters  with  an  old  maid 
landlady,  who  pesters  and  annoys  him  in  many  ways,  and  finally  sends  him 
forth  despoiled  of  his  worldly  goods  and  a  laughing-stock  for  the  country- 
side. There  is  a  great  deal  of  humor  in  the  tale,  but  one  must  confess 
that  the  humor  is  of  a  rather  heavy  sort,  it  being  weighed  down  by  a  domi- 
nant satirical  purpose.  —  The  Beacon. 

One  handsome  i2mo  volume,  uniform  with  "  Pere  Goriot," 
"  The  Duchesse  de  Langeais,"  "  Cesar  Birotteau,"  "  Eugenie 
Grandet,"  "  Cousin  Pons,"  "  The  Country  Doctor,"  "  The  Two 
Brothers,"  and  "The  Alkahest."  Half  morocco,  French  style. 
Price,  $1.50. 


ROBERTS   BROTHERS,  Publishers,  Boston. 


Balzac  in  English. 


Albert   Savarus,    with    Paz   (La    Fausse 
Maitresse)  and   Madame  Firmiani.    By 

HoNORE  DE  Balzac.     Translated   by  Katharine  Prescott 
Wormeley. 

There  is  much  in  this,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  of  his  books, 
which  is  synonymous  with  Balzac's  own  life.  It  is  the  story  of  a  man's 
first  love  for  woman,  his  inspirer,  the  source  from  whom  he  derives 
his  power  of  action.  It  also  contains  many  details  on  his  habits  of 
life  and  work. 

The  three  short  stories  in  this  volume, —  'Albert  Savarus,'  'Paz'  and  '  Madame 
Firmiani  '—are  chips  from  that  astounding  workshop  which  never  ceased  its  Hephoes- 
tian  labors  and  products  until  Balzac  was  no  more.  Short  stories  of  this  character 
flew  from  his  glowing  forge  like  sparks  from  an  anvil,  the  playthings  of  an  idle  hour, 
the  interludes  of  a  more  vivid  drama.  Three  of  them  gathered  here  illustrate  as 
usual  Parisian  and  provincial  life,  two  in  a  very  noble  fashion,  Balzacian  to  the  core. 
The  third  — '  Albert  Savarus' —  has  many  elements  of  tragedy  and  grandeur  in  it, 
spoiled  only  by  an  abruptness  in  the  conclusion  and  an  accumulation  of  unnecessary 
horrors  that  chill  the  reader.     It  is  a  block  of  tragic  marble  hewn,  not  to  a  finish,  but 

to  a  fine  prophetic  suggestion  of  what  is  to  follow  if !     The  if  never  emerges 

from  conditionality  to  fulfilment.  The  beautiful  Hues  and  sinuous  curves  of  the 
nascent  statue  are  there,  not  fi-lly  born  of  the  encasing  stone  ;  what  sculptors  call  the 
'tenons'  show  in  all  their  visibility  —  the  supports  and  scaffoldings  reveal  their 
presence  ;  the  forefront  is  finished  as  in  a  Greek  metope  or  Olympian  tympanum, 
where  broken  Lapiths  and  Centaurs  disport  themselves ;  but  the  background  is  rude 
and  primitive 

In  *  Madame  Firmiani'  a  few  brilliant  pages  suffice  to  a  perfect  picture, —  one  of 
the  few  spotless  pictures  of  this  superb  yet  sinning  magician  so  rich  in  pictures.  It  is 
French  nature  that  Balzac  depicts,  warm  with  all  the  physical  impulses,  undisguised 
in  its  assaults  on  the  soul,  ingeniously  sensual,  odiously  loose  in  its  views  of  marriage 
and  the  marriage  relation,  but  splendidly  picturesque.  In  this  brief  romance  noble 
words  are  wedded  to  noble  music.  In  '  Paz  '  an  almost  equal  nobility  of  thought  — 
the  nobility  of  self-renunciation — is  attained.  Balzac  endows  his  men  and  women 
with  happy  millions  and  unhappy  natures:  the  red  ruby  —  the  broken  heart  —  blazes 
in  a  setting  of  gold.  '  Paz, '  the  sublime  Pole  who  loves  the  wife  of  his  best  friend, 
a  Slav  Croesus,  is  no  exception  to  the  rule.  The  richest  rhetoric,  the  sunniest  colors, 
fail  to  counteract  the  Acherontian  gloom  of  these  lives  and  sorrows  snatched  from  the 
cauldron  of  urban  and  rural  France,  —  a  cauldron  that  burns  hotter  than  any  other 
with  its  strange  Roman  and  Celtic  ardors.  Balzac  was  perpetually  dipping  into  it  and 
drawing  from  it  the  wonderful  and  extraordinary  incidents  of  his  novels,  incidents  often 
monstrous  in  their  untruth  if  looked  at  from  any  other  than  a  French  point  of  view. 
Thus,  the  devilish  ingenuity  of  the  jealous  woman  in  '  Albert  Savarus'  would  seem 
unnatural  anywhere  else  than  in  the  sombre  French  provinces  of  1836, —  a  toadstool 
sprung  up  in  the  rank  moonlight  of  the  religious  conventual  system  of  education  for 
women  ;  but  there,  and  then,  and  as  one  result  of  this  system  of  repression,  it 
seems  perfectly  natural.  And  so  does  the  beautiful  self-abnegation  of  Albert  himself, 
that  high-strung  soul  that  could  have  been  born  only  in  nervous  and  passionate 
France. 

As  usual.  Miss  Wormeley's  charming  translation  floats  the  reader  over  these 
pages  in  the  swiftest  and  airiest  manner.  —  The  Critic. 

One  handsome  i2mo  volume,  uniform  with  "  Pere  Goriot,"  "  The 
Duchesse  de  Langeais,"  "  Cesar  Birotteau,"  "  Eugenie  Grandet," 
"  Cousin  Pons,"  "  The  Country  Doctor,"  "  The  Two  Brothers,"  and 
"  The  Alkahest."     Half  morocco,  French  style.     Price,  $1.50. 


ROBERTS  BROTHERS,  Publishers,  Boston. 


Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 


A  MEMOIR  OF  HONORE  DE  BALZAC. 


Compiled  and  written  by  Katharine  Prescott  Wormeley,  translator 
of  Balzac's  works.  With  portrait  of  Balzac,  taken  one  hour  after 
death,  by  Eugene  Giraud,  and  a  Sketch  of  the  Prison  of  the  College 
de  Vendome.  One  volume,  i2mo.  Half  Russia,  uniform  with  our 
edition  of  Balzac's  works.     Price,  ^1.50. 

A  complete  life  of  Balzac  can  probably  never  be  written.  The  sole  object  of 
the  present  volume  is  to  present  Balzac  to  American  readers.  This  memoir  is 
meant  to  be  a  presentation  of  the  man,  —  and  not  of  his  work,  except  as  it  was  a 
part  of  himself,  —  derived  from  authentic  sources  of  information,  and  presented  in 
their  own  words,  with  such  simple  elucidations  as  a  close  intercourse  with  Balzac's 
mind,  necessitated  by  conscientious  translation,  naturally  gives.  The  portrait 
in  this  volume  was  considered  by  Madame  de  Balzac  the  best  likeness  of  her 
husband. 

Miss  Wormeley's  discussion  of  the  subject  is  of  value  in  many  ways,  and  it  has 
long  been  needed  as  a  help  to  comprehension  of  his  life  and  character.  Person- 
ally, he  lived  up  to  his  theory.  His  life  was  in  fact  austere.  Any  detailed  ac- 
count of  the  conditions  under  which  he  worked,  such  as  are  given  in  this  volume, 
will  show  that  this  must  have  been  the  case ;  and  the  fact  strongly  reinforces  the 
doctrine.  Miss  Wormeley,  in  arranging  her  account  of  his  career,  has,  almost 
of  necessity,  made  free  use  of  the  letters  and  memoir  published  by  Balzac's  sister, 
Madame  .Surville.  She  has  also,  whenever  it  would  serve  the  purpose  of  illus- 
tration better,  quoted  from  the  sketches  of  him  by  his  contemporaries,  wisely 
rejecting  the  trivialities  and  frivolities  by  the  exaggeration  of  which  many  of  his 
first  chroniclers  seemed  bent  upon  giving  the  great  author  a  kind  of  opera-bouffe 
aspect.  To  judge  from  some  of  these  accounts,  he  was  flighty,  irresponsible, 
possibly  a  little  mad,  prone  to  lose  touch  of  actualities  by  the  dominance  of  his 
imagination,  fond  of  wild  and  impracticable  schemes,  and  altogether  an  eccentric 
and  unstable  person.  But  it  is  not  difficult  to  prove  that  Balzac  was  quite  a 
different  character;  that  he  possessed  a  marvellous  power  of  intellectual  organi- 
zation; that  he  was  the  most  methodical  and  indefatigable  of  workers;  that  he 
was  a  man  of  a  most  delicate  sense  of  honor;  that  his  life  was  not  simply  de- 
voted to  literary  ambition,  but  was  a  martyrdom  to  obligations  which  were  his 
misfortune,  but  not  his  fault. 

AH  this  Miss  VVormley  has  well  set  forth  ;  and  in  doing  so  she  has  certainly 
relieved  Balzac  of  much  unmerited  odium,  and  has  enabled  those  who  have  not 
made  a  study  of  his  character  and  work  to  understand  how  high  the  place  is  in 
any_ estimate  of  the  helpers  of  modern  progress  and  enlightenment  to  which  his 
genius  and  the  loftiness  of  his  aims  entitle  him.  This  memoir  is  a  very  modest 
biography,  though  a  very  good  one.  The  author  has  effaced  herself  as  much  as 
possible,  and  has  relied  upon  "documents"  whenever  they  were  trustworthy. — 
N.  Y.  Tribune. 


Sold  by  all  booksellers.     Mailed.,  postpaid.^  on  receipt  of 
price,  by  the  publishers, 

ROBERTS  BROTHERS,  Boston. 


BALZAC  IN  ENGLISH, 


An  Historical  Mystery. 

Translated  by  KATHARINE  PRESGOTT  WORMELEY. 
12mo.    Half  Russia.    Uniform  with  Balzac's  Works     Price,  $1.50. 


An  Historical  xl/ystery'-is  the  title  given  to"  Una  Tenebreuse  Affaire,"  which 
has  just  appeared  in  the  series  of  translations  of  Honore  de  Balzac's  novels,  by 
Katharine  Prescott  Wonneley  This  exciting  romance  is  full  of  stirring  interest, 
and  is  distinguished  by  that  minute  analysis  of  character  in  which  its  eminent 
author  excelled.  The  characters  stand  boldly  out  from  the  surrounding  incidents, 
and  with  a  fidelity  as  wonderful  as  it  is  truthful.  Plot  and  counterplot  follow 
each  other  with  marvellous  rapidity;  and  around  the  exciting  days  when  Na- 
poleon was  First  Consul,  and  afterward  when  he  was  Emperor,  a  mystery  is 
woven  in  which  some  royalists  are  concerned  that  is  concealed  with  masterly 
ingenuity  until  the  novelist  sees  fit  to  take  his  reader  into  his  confidence.  The 
heroine,  Laurence,  is  a  remarkably  strong  character:  and  the  love-story  in  which 
she  figures  is  refreshing  in  its  departure  from  the  beaten  path  of  the  ordinary 
writer  of  fiction.  Michu,  her  devoted  servant,  has  also  a  marked  individuality, 
which  leaves  a  lasting  impression.  Napoleon,  Talleyrand,  Fouche,  and  other 
historical  personages,  appear  in  the  tale  in  a  manner  that  is  at  once  natural  and 
impressive.  As  an  addition  to  a  remarkable  series,  the  book  is  one  that  no 
admirer  of  Balzac  can  afford  to  neglect.  Miss  Wormeley's  translation  reproduces 
the  peculiarities  of  the  author's  style  with  the  faithfulness  for  which  she  has 
hitherto  been  celebrated.  —  Saturday   Evening  Gazette. 

It  makes  very  interesting  reading  at  this  distance  of  time,  however;  and  Balzac 
has  given  to  the  legendary  account  much  of  the  solidity  of  history  by  his  adroit 
manipulation.  For  the  main  story  it  must  be  said  that  the  action  is  swifter  and 
more  varied  than  in  many  of  the  author's  books,  and  that  there  are  not  wanting 
many  of  those  cameo-like  portraits  necessary  to  warn  the  reader  against  slovenly 
perusal  of  this  carefully  written  story;  for  the  complications  are  such,  and  the  re- 
lations between  the  several  plots  involved  so  intricate,  that  the  thread  might 
easily  be  lost  and  much  of  the  interest  be  thus  destroyed  The  usual  Balzac 
compactness  is  of  course  present  throughout,  to  give  body  and  significance  to  the 
work,  and  the  stage  is  crowded  with  impressive  figures.  It  would  be  impossible 
to  find  a  book  which  gives  a  better  or  more  faithful  illustration  of  one  of  the 
strangest  periods  in  French  history,  in  short  ;  and  its  attraction  as  a  story  is  at 
lea.st  equalled  by  its  value  as  a  true  picture  of  the  time  it  is  concerned  with.  The 
translation  is  as  spirited  and  close  as  Miss  Wormeley  has  taught  us  to  expect  in 
this  admirable  series.  —New  York  Tribune. 

One  of  the  most  intensely  interesting  novels  that  Balzac  ever  wrote  is  .<4« 
Historical  Mystery,  whose  translation  has  just  been  added  to  the  preceding 
novels  that  compose  the  "Comedie  Humaine  "  so  admirably  translated  by  Miss 
Katharine  Prescott  Wormeley.  The  story  opens  in  the  autumn  of  1803,  in  the 
time  of  the  Empire,  and  the  motive  is  in  deep-laid  political  plots,  which  are  re- 
vealed with  the  subtle  and  ingenious  skill  that  marks  the  art  of  Balzac.  .  .  The 
story  is  a  deep-laid  political  conspiracy  of  the  secret  service  of  the  ministry  of 
the  police.  Talleyrand,  M'lle  de  Cinq-Cygne,  the  Princess  de  Cadigan,  Louis 
XVIII,  as  well  as  Napoleon,  figure  as  characters  of  this  thrilling  historic  ro- 
mance. An  absorbing  love-story  is  also  told,  in  which  State  intrigue  plaj's  an 
important  part.  The  character-drawing  is  faithful  to  history,  and  the  story  illu- 
minates French  life  in  the  early  years  of  the  century  as  if  a  calcium  light  were 
thrown  on  the  scene.  \ 

It  IS  a  romance  of  remarkable  power^  and  one  of  the  most  deeply  fascinating 
of  all  the  novels  of  the  "Comedie  Humaine." 


Sold  by  all  booksellers.     Mai  led  ^  post-paid,  on  receipt  of 
price  by  the  Publishers. 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS,    Boston. 


BALZAC     IN     ENOLISHL. 

LOUIS  LAMBERT. 


"As  for  Balzac,"  writes  Oscar  Wilde,  "  he  was  a  most  remarkable  combination 
of  the  artistic  temperament  with  the  scientific  spirit."  It  is  his  artistic  tempera* 
ment  which  reveals  itself  the  most  clearly  in  the  novel  before  us.  As  we  read 
"  Louis  Lambert,"  we  feel  convinced  that  it  is  largely  autobiographical.  It  is  a 
psychical  study  as  delicate  as  Amiel's  Journal,  and  nearly  as  spiritual.  We  follow 
the  life  of  the  sensitive,  poetical  schoolboy,  feeling  that  it  is  a  true  picture  of  Bal- 
zac's own  youth.  When  the  literary  work  on  whicii  the  hero  had  written  for  years 
in  all  his  spare  moments  is  destroyed,  we  do  not  need  to  be  told  by  Mr.  Parsons 
that  this  is  an  episode  in  Balzac's  own  experience  ;  we  are  sure  of  this  fact  already; 
and  no  writer  could  describe  so  sympathetically  the  deep  spiritual  experiences  of 
an  aspiring  soul  who  had  not  at  heart  felt  them  keenly.  No  materialist  could  have 
written  "  Louis  Lambert."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

Of  all  of  Balzac's  works  thus  far  translated  by  Miss  Katharine  Prescott  Wormeley, 
the  last  in  the  series,  "  Louis  Lambert,"  is  the  most  difficult  of  comprehension. 
It  is  the  second  of  the  author's  Philosophical  Studies,  "The  Magic  Skin"  being 
the  first,  and  "  Seraphita,"  shortly  to  be  published,  being  the  third  and  last.  In 
"Louis  Lambert"  Balzac  has  presented  a  study  of  a  noble  soul  —  a  spirit  of 
exalted  and  lofty  aspirations  which  chafes  under  the  fetters  of  earthly  existence, 
and  has  no  sympathy  with  the  world  of  materialism.  This  pure-souled  genius  is 
made  the  medium,  moreover,  for  the  enunciation  of  the  outlines  of  a  system  of 
philosophy  which  goes  to  the  very  roots  of  Oriental  occultism  and  mysticism  as  its 
source,  and  which  thus  reveals  the  marvellous  scope  of  Balzac's  learning.  The 
scholarly  introduction  to  the  book  by  George  Frederic  Parsons,  in  addition  to 
throwing  a  great  deal  of  valuable  light  upon  other  phases  of  the  work,  shows  how 
many  of  the  most  recent  scientific  theories  are  directly  in  line  with  the  doctrines 
broadly  set  forth  by  Balzac  nearly  sixty  years  ago.  The  book  is  one  to  be  studied 
rather  than  read  ;  and  it  is  made  intelligible  by  the  extremely  able  introduction 
and  by  Miss  Wormeley's  excellent  translation. —  The  Book-Buyer. 

"  Louis  Lambert,"  with  the  two  other  members  of  the  Trilogy,  "  La  Peau  de 
Chagrin  "  and  "  Seraphita;"  is  a  book  which  presents  many  difficulties  to  the 
student.  It  deals  with  profound  and  unfamiliar  subjects,  and  the  meaning  of  the 
author  by  no  means  lies  on  the  surface.  It  is  the  study  of  a  great,  aspiring  soul 
enshrined  in  a  feeble  body,  the  sword  wearing  out  the  scabbard,  the  spirit  soaring 
away  from  its  prison-house  of  flesh  to  its  more  congenial  home.  It  is  in  marked 
contrast  to  the  study  of  the  destructive  and  debasing  process  which  we  see  in  the 
*'  Peau  de  Chagrin."  It  stands  midway  between  this  study  of  the  mean  and  base 
and  that  noble  presentation  of  the  final  evolution  of  a  soul  on  the  very  borders  of 
Divinity  which  Balzac  gives  us  in  "  Seraphita." 

The  reader  not  accustomed  to  such  high  ponderings  needs  a  guide  to  place  him 
en  rapport  with  the  Seer.  Such  a  guide  and  friend  he  finds  in  Mr.  Parsons, 
whose  introduction  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  pages  is  by  no  means  the  least  valu- 
acle  part  of  this  volume.  It  is  impossible  to  do  more  than  sketch  the  analysis  of 
Balzac's  philosophy  and  the  demonstration  so  successfully  attempted  by  Mr.  Par- 
son-^ of  the  exact  correlation  between  many  of  Balzac's  speculations  and  the 
newest  scientific  theories.  The  introduction  is  so  closely  written  that  it  defies 
much  condensation.  It  is  so  intrinsically  valuable  that  it  will  thoroughly  repay 
careful  and  minute  study.  — From  "  Light"  a  London  Journal  of  Psychical  and 
Occult  Research,  March  9,1889. 

« 

One  handsome  \2mo  volume,   uniform  with    '■^  Plre   Goriot,^^  "  The 
Duchesse  de  Langeais,"''    "  Cesar   Birofteau,"    "  Eugenie    Grandet^ 
"  Cousin  Pons,''''  "  The  Country  Doctor,"  "  77?^   Two  Brothers,^''  "  The 
Alkahest,"  ^^  Modeste  Mignopt,"''  "  The  Magic   Ski7i,"  ^^  Cousin    Bette.'^ 
Bound  in  half  morocco,  French  Style.     Price,  ^1.50. 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS,  Publishers, 

Boston 


BALZAC   IN   ENGLISH, 


Kame  and   Sorrow, 

^nt  ©ti)et  stories, 

TRANSLATED   BY   KATHARINE   PRESCOTT   WORMELEY. 

i2mo.  Half  Russia.  Uniform  with  our  edition  of  Balzac's 
Works.  Price,  $1.50.  In  addition  to  this  remarkable  story, 
the  volume  contains  the  following,  namely :  "  Colonel  Chabert/' 
*  The  Atheist's  Mass,"  "  La  Grande  Breteche,"  "  The  Purse,"  and 
"*  La  Grenadiere." 

The  force  and  passion  of  the  stories  of  Balzac  are  unapproachable.  He  had 
tha  art  of  puttinj?  into  half  a  dozen  pages  all  the  fire  and  stress  which  manj 
writers,  who  are  still  great,  cannot  compass  in  a  volume.  The  present  volume  is 
an  admirable  collection,  and  presents  well  his  power  of  handling  the  short  story. 
That  the  translation  is  excellent  need  hardly  be  said  —  Boston  Courier. 

The  six  stories^  admirably  translated  by  Miss  Wormeley,  afford  good  examples 
of  Balzac's  work  m  what  not  a  few  critics  have  thought  his  chief  specialty.  It  is 
certain  that  no  writer  of  many  novels  wrote  so  many  short  stories  as  he  :  and  it  is 
equally  as  certain  that  his  short  stories  are,  almost  without  an  exception,  models 
of  what  such  compositions  ought  to  be.  .  .  No  modern  author,  however,  of  any 
school  whatever,  has  succeeded  in  producing  short  stories  half  so  good  as  Balzac's 
best.  Balzac  did  not,  indeed,  attempt  to  display  his  subtility  and  deftness  by 
writing  short  stories  about  nothing.  Every  one  of  his  tales  contains  an  episode, 
not  necessarily,  but  usually,  a  dramatic  episode  The  first  in  the  present  collec- 
tion, better  known  as  "  La  Maison  du  Chat-qui-pelote,"  is  really  a  short  novel. 
It  has  all  the  machinery,  all  the  interest,  all  the  detail  of  a  regular  story.  The 
difference  is  that  it  is  compressed  as  Balzac  only  could  compress :  that  here  and 
there  important  events,  changes,  etc.,  are  indicated  in  a  few  powerful  lines  instead 
of  being  elaborated;  that  the  vital  points  are  thrown  into  strong  rehef.  Take  the 
pathetic  story  of  "Colonel  Chabert"  It  begins  with  an  elaboration  of  detail. 
The  description  of  the  lawyer's  office  might  seem  to  some  too  minute.  But  it  is 
the  stage  upon  which  the  Colonel  is  to  appear,  and  when  he  enters  we  see  the 
value  of  the  preliminaries,  for  a  picture  is  presented  which  the  memory  seizes  and 
holds.  As  the  action  progresses,  detail  is  used  more  parsimoniously,  because  the 
tnise-en-scene  has  already  been  completed,  and  because,  also,  the  characters  once 
clearly  described,  the  development  of  character  and  the  working  of  passion  can 
be  indicated  with  a  few  pregnant  strokes.  Notwithstanding  this  increasing 
economy  of  space,  the  action  takes  on  a  swifter  intensity,  and  the  culmination  01 
the  tragedy  leaves  the  reader  breathless. 

In  "The  Atheist's  Mass  "  we  have  quite  a  new  kind  of  story  This  is  rather 
a  psychological  study  than  a  narrative  of  action.  Two  widely  distinguished  char- 
acters are  thrown  on  the  canvas  here,  —  that  of  the  great  surgeon  and  that  of  the 
humble  patron  ;  and  one  knows  not  which  most  to  admire,  the  vigor  of  the 
drawing,  or  the  subtle  and  lucid  psychical  analysis.  In  both  there  is  rare  beauty  of 
soul,  and  perhaps,  after  all,  the  poor  Auvergnat  surpasses  the  eminent  surgeon, 
though  this  is  a  delicate  and  difficult  question.  But  how  complete  the  little  story 
is ;  how  much  it  tells  ;  with  what  skill,  and  in  how  delightful  a  manner !  Then 
there  is  that  tremendous  haunting  legend  of  "  La  Grande  Breteche,"  a  story  which 
has  always  been  turned  into  more  languages  and  twisted  into  more  new  forms  than 
almost  any  other  of  its  kind  extant.  What  author  has  equalled  the  continuing 
horror  of  that  unfaithful  wife's  agony,  compelled  to  look  on  and  assist  at  the  slow 
murder  of  her  entrapped  lover?  .  .  Then  the  death  of  the  husband  and  wife,  — 
the  one  by  quick  and  fiercer  dissipation,  the  other  by  simple  refusal  to  live  longer, 
—  and  the  abandonment  of  the  accursed  dwelling  to  solitude  and  decay,  complete 
a.  picture,  which  for  vividness,  emotional  force,  imaginative  power,  and  compre- 
hensiveness of  effects,  can  be  said  to  have  few  equals  in  its  own  class  of  fiction.  — 
Kansas  City  Journal. 

Sold  by  all  booksellers.  Mailed,  postpaid,  on  receipt  of  price,  by 
the  publishers, 

ROBERTS    BROTHERS,  Boston. 


BALZAC   IN   ENGLISH. 

MODESTE    MiGNON 

TRANSLATED    BY 

KATHARINE    PRESCOTT    WORMELEY. 


In  "  Modeste  Mignon  "  we  still  have  that  masterly  power  of  analysis,  keen, 
incisive,  piercing  superficiality  and  pretence,  as  a  rapier  pierces  a  doublet,  but  we 
have  in  addition  the  purity  and  sweetness  of  a  genuine  light  comedy,  —  a  comedy 
which  has  for  its  central  object  the  delineation  of  the  mysteries  of  a  young  girl's 
mind. 

As  a  whole,  "  Modeste  Mignon  "  is  not  only  a  masterpiece  of  French  art,  but 
a  masterpiece  of  that  master  before  whom  later  novelists  must  pale  their  ineffec- 
tual fires.  As  the  different  examples  of  Balzac's  skill  are  brought  before  the  pub- 
lic through  the  excellent  translations  by  Miss  Wormeley,  none  competent  to  judge 
can  fail  to  perceive  the  power  of  that  gigantic  intellect  which  projected  and  carried 
out  the  scheme  of  the  Comedie  Humaine,nor  fail  to  understand  the  improvement 
in  Hteratve  that  would  result  if  Balzac's  methods  and  aims  were  carefully  studied 
by  all  who  aspire  to  the  name  of  novelist  — New  York  Home  Journal. 

The  public  owes  a  debt  of  gratitude  to  the  industrious  translator  of  Balzac's 
masterpieces.  They  follow  one  another  with  sufficient  rapidity  to  stand  in  striking 
contrast  with  each  other.  The  conscientious  reader  of  them  cannot  but  lay  down  one 
after  another  with  an  increasing  admiration  for  their  author's  marvellous  grasp  upon 
the  great  social  forces  which  govern  the  thought  and  actions  of  men.  In  "  Modeste 
Mignon,"  as  in  "  Eugenie  Grandet,"  we  find  that  the  tremulous  vibrations  of  first 
love  in  the  heart  of  a  young  and  pure-minded  girl  are  not  deemed  unworthy  of  this 
great  artist's  study.  The  delicate  growth  of  a  sentiment  which  gradually  expanded 
into  a  passion,  and  which  was  absolutely  free  from  any  taint  of  sensuality,  is 
analyzed  in  "  Modeste  Mignon"  with  consummate  skill.  The  plot  of  this  book 
is  far  from  extraordinary.  It  is  even  commonplace.  But  where  in  these  days 
shall  we  find  another  author  who  can  out  of  such  a  simple  plot  make  a  story  like 
the  one  before  us?  The  many-sidedness  of  Balzac's  genius  is  widely  acknowl- 
edged ;  but  there  are  probably  levy  people  among  those  whose  acquaintance  with 
his  writings  has  been  necessarily  limited  to  translations  who  could  conceive  of  him 
producing  such  a  bright  and  sparkling  story,  thoroughly  realistic,  full  of  vitalizing 
power,  keen  analysis,  and  depth  of  study  and  reflection,  brilliantly  imaginative, 
and  showing  an  elasticity  in  its  creative  process  which  cannot  fail  to  attract  every 
lover  of  a  higher  and  better  art  in  fiction. 

But  light  and  delicate  as  Balzac's  touch  generally  is  throughout  this  volume, 
there  is  also  shown  a  slumbering  force  which  occasionally  awakens  and  delivers  a 
blow  that  seems  as  if  it  had  been  struck  by  the  hammer  of  Thor.  He  ranges  over 
the  whole  scale  of  human  passion  and  emotion,  penetrates  into  the  very  inmost 
chambers  of  the  heart,  apprehends  its  movements,  and  lays  bare  its  weakness 
with  a  firm  and  yet  delicate  touch  of  his  scalpel.  The  book  has  been  excellently 
translated  by  Miss  Wormeley  She  is  fully  in  sympathy  with  the  author,  and  has 
caught  his  spirit,  and  the  result  is  a  translation  which  preserves  the  full  flavor, 
vigor,  and  delicacy  of  the  original. 

-♦- 

One  handsome  iimo  volume^  uniform  with  '■'■  Plre  Goriot,^^  "  The 
Duchesse  de  Lanj^eais,''^  ^^  Cesar  Birotteau,^^  '■^Eugenie  Grandet^^ 
"^^  Cousin  Pons,''  "  The  Country  Doctor,'"  ^'■The  Two  Brothers,^'  and 
^^  The  Alkahest.'''     Half  morocco,  French  style.     Price,  $i.^o. 

ROBERTS    BROTHERS,  Publishers, 

Boston 


BALZAC    IN    ENGLISH. 


SONS  OF  THE  SOIL. 

Translated  by  Katharine  Prescott  Wormeley. 


Many  critics  have  regarded  "Les  Paysans,"  to  which  Miss  Wormeley, 
in  her  admirable  translation,  has  given  the  title  "  Sons  of  the  Soil,"  as  one 
of  Balzac's  strongest  novels  ;  and  it  cannot  fail  to  impress  those  who  read 
this  English  rendering  of  it.  Fifty  or  sixty  years  ago  Balzac  made  a  pro- 
found study  of  the  effects  produced  by  the  Revolution  upon  the  peasants 
of  the  remote  provinces  of  France,  and  he  has  here  elaborated  these  obser- 
vations in  a  powerful  picture  of  one  of  those  strange,  disguised,  but  fero- 
cious social  wars  which  were  at  the  time  not  only  rendered  possible,  but 
promoted  by  three  potent  influences,  namely,  the  selfishness  of  the  rich 
landholders;  the  land-hunger  and  stimulated  greed  of  the  peasants;  and 
the  calculated  rapacity  of  middle-class  capitalists,  craftily  using  the  hatreds 
of  the  poor  to  forward  their  own  plots.  The  first  part  of  ''  Les  Paysans  " 
(and  the  only  part  which  was  published  during  the  author's  life)  appeared 
under  a  title  taken  from  an  old  and  deeply  significant  proverb.  Qui  a  terre 
a  guerre, — "Who  has  land  has  war." 

It  is  the  account  of  a  guerilla  war  conducted  by  a  whole  country-side 
against  one  great  land-owner, — a  war  in  which,  moreover,  the  lawless 
aggressions  of  the  peasantry  are  prompted,  supported,  and  directed  by  an 
amazing  alliance  between  the  richest,  most  unscrupulons,  and  most  power 
ful  of  the  neighboring  provincial  magnates,  who,  by  controlling,  through 
family  council,  the  local  administration,  are  in  a  position  to  paralyze  resist 
ance  to  their  conspiracy.  The  working  out  of  this  deep  plot  affords  thv 
author  opportunity  for  the  introduction  of  a  whole  gallery  of  marvelloui 
studies. 

It  is  perhaps  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  this  powerful  and  absorbing 
story  is  Ufted  above  the  level  of  romance  by  the  unequalled  artistic  genius 
of  the  author,  and  that  it  is  at  times  almost  transformed  into  a  profound 
political  study  by  the  depth  and  acumen  of  his  suggestions  and  comments. 
Nor  should  it  be  requisite  to  point  out  analogies  with  territorial  conditions 
in  more  than  one  other  country,  which  lend  to  "  Les  Paysans  "  a  special 
interest  and  significance,  and  are  likely  to  prevent  it  from  becoming  obsolete 
for  a  long  time  to  come.  Of  the  translation  it  only  need  be  said  that  it  is 
as  good  as  Miss  Wormeley  has  accustomed  us  to  expect,  and  that  means 
the  best  rendering  of  French  into  English  that  has  ever  been  done.  — 
New  York  Tribune. 


Handsome  12mo  volume,  bound  in  half  Russia.   Price, 
*1.50. 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS,  Publishers, 

BOSTON,   MASS. 


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